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CONTENTS 



OP 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING ROOM RECITATIONS. 



Name. Author. Page 

Alone at Eighty Anonymous 123 

Alsace Legend (An) L. S. Costello 126 

Appeel for Are to the Sextant of the Brick 

Meetinghouse Anonymous 30 

Art Charles Spr ague 41 

Baby Alice's Rain John Hay Furness 119 

Baby Bunn Anonymous 13 

Baby's Things Thalia Wilkinson 114 

Baneful Influence of Skepticism Thomas Campbell. ..... 55 

Ballad of Names (A) Austin Dobson 66 

Bride (The) Mrs. Sigourney 80 

Brown's Mistake Anonymous 159 

Budd's Christmas Stocking Anonymous 160 

Burial of Moses (The) Mrs. Alexander 20 

Building of the Ship E. J. Pope 189 

Castle of Indolence James Thomson 96 

City of a Thousand Temptations Sardou 85 

Changed Cross (The) Anonymous 168 

Chicago J. G. TThittier 165 

Child and Hind (The) Thomas Campbell 11 

Children (The) Charles Dickens 155 

Children in the Moon (The) From the Scandinavian 113 



4 CONTENTS. 

Name. Author. Page 

Coals of Fire i Anonymous 167 

Country Life Joanna Bailue 130 

Cumnor Hall W. J. Micelle 99 

Dirge of Lovely Rosabelle Scott 95 

Dot Baby of Mine Charles F.Adams 145 

Don't Propose • Anonymous 144 

Dressed Turkey (The) Anonymous 158 

Drooping Lily John Gay 101 

Drowned Eben E. Rexford 97 

Dying Newsboy (The) Emily Thornton 148 

Episode of the War (An) Anonymous 142 

Exclamatory Anonymous 35 

Faithful Dog (The) Mrs. Sigourney 87 

Fate of Charlotte Corday (The) Clare S. McKinle y .... 57 

Field Flo w era Thomas Campbell 187 

Fortitude more than Bravery Mrs. Hemans 181 

Found Dead Albert Leighton 64 

Ghost (The) Anonymous 38 

God Bless our School Anonymous 134 

God Provideth for the Morrow ...» Reginald Heber 185 

Grandmother (The) Victor Hugo 87 

Grandmother's Sermon Ellen A. Jewett 164 

Hay Making... Augusta Moore 191 

Her first Offer - Anonymous 184 

How a Wicked Nevey got himself into the 

Will J. T. Fields 91 

How it Happened Anonymous 157 

How to Cure a Cold Mark Twain 174 

How Willie was Saved David Hill. 152 

Hunting a Mouse Joshua Jenkins 181 

If I should Die To-night? Anonymous 46 

I Don't Care Anonymous 52 

Jean D'Arc Clare S. McKinley.... 89 

Janette's Hair Miles O'Reilly 104 

Jack Frost and the Christmas Trees S. J. Burke 108 

Kinderzeitnen From the German 188 



CONTENTS. 5 

Name. Author. Page 

Lady of the Earl. Anonymous 68 

Lark and Her Young Ones Anonymous 36 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.. Mrs. Hemans 129 

Lieutenant Luff Thomas Hood 44 

Life Boat (The) Dagonet 25 

Little Home Body George Cooper 110 

Little Nellie's visit from Santa Claus Mrs. C. E. Wilbur 171 

Little Phil Mrs. Helen Rich 139 

Lord of Butrago John Gibson Lockhart. 82 

Lucky Horseshoe (The) Anonymous 146 

Mastery of Man over Nature Horace Greeley 47 

Miss Jones and the Burglar S. S. Waggoner 138 

Miss Nomers (The) Anonymous 50 

Moat of Life (The) , John Antrobus.... 115 

My King, My King Anonymous 33 

My Mother's Old Shoe > Mrs. G. Linneus Banks. 106 

Never say "I can't" Mrs. M. A. Kidder 120 

No More Sea ...Anonymous 71 

Old Canoe (The) Anonymous 32 

Old Mother's Story Tennyson 69 

Old Parson's Story (The) Anonymous 162 

Old Times Anonymous 19 

On a Sprig of Heath ...Mrs. Grant 121 

One Day Nearer Home T. M.Hancock 173 

One of the Little Ones Anonymous 132 

Owl (The) Anonymous 172 

Patchwork Philosophy ......Anonymous 22 

Penny ye meant to Gi'e (The) Anonymous .... 177 

Poor Mary -s Story , Anonymous, 67 

Petit Jean. Lillie E, Barb 103 

Quick : Man the Life-Boat .,.. ........ Anonymous, 49 

Betirement James Beattie . » , 76 

Hiding Down ,..,..» Nora Perry 18 

Boom, Gentle Flowers , t , N. P, Willis 74 

Signs and Omens Anonymous 53 

Skating ....,., .Anonymous » 54 



6 CONTENTS, 

Name. Author. Page 

Song William Allingham.... 118 

Song of the Furbelows Mary C.Webster 60 

Summer Land (The) Bell Clinton 127 

Sunset's Gate (The) J. C. A 15 

Sunset Gates of Gold Rose Hartwick Thorpe 48 

Taking Toll Anonymous 141 

Thanksgiving Charles Follen Adams 83 

They didn't think Phgebe Cary 125 

To a Daughter of New England Anonymous Ill 

Tramp's Story (The) . Will Carleton 7 

True Aristocrat (The) Stewart 81 

Trumpet (The) Mrs. Hemans 122 

Truth and Honor Anonymous 61 

Value of Time (The) Freeman Hunt 179 

Vaudois Peddler (The) Anonymous 42 

Village Sewing Society (The) Anonymous 176 

Voice of the Grass (The) Anonymous 186 

What the old Man Said.. o Alice Bobbins 150 

What Would the Harvest Be ?. ..Anonymous 65 

White Dove (The) Frederika Bremer.... 2A 

Whirlwind (The) Juliet H. Lewis 136 

Who shall Judge Man ! Anonymous 93 

Who will take care of My Baby 1 Mrs. Mulock-Craik. ... 59 

Why he Wouldn't Die Anonymous 128 

Woman Scorned (A ).... Mosenthal 73 



PRESCOTT'S 



lrHTOj-|t00m lletitates. 



TEE TBAMFS STOBY, 

WILL CARLETOX. 

If experience lias gold in it (as discerning folks agree), 

Then there's quite a little fortune stowed away somewhere in 

me, 
And I deal it out regardless of a regular stated price, 
In rough-done-up prize packages of common-sense advice : 
The people they can take it or run round it, as they please, 
But the best thing they'll find in it is some words like unto 

these : 
Worm or beetle, drought or tempest, on a farmer's land may 

faU, 
But for first-class ruination, trust a mortgage 'gainst them all. 

On my weddin'-day my father touched me kindly on the arm, 
And handed me the papers for an eighty-acre farm, 
With the stock an' tools an' buildin's for an independent start. 
Saying, '* Here's a weddin' present from my muscle and my 

heart : 
And, except the admonitions you have taken from my tongue, 
And the reasonable lickens that you had when you was young, 
And your food and clothes and schoolin' (not as much as I 

could wish, 
For I had a number eatin' from a some'at scanty dish), 



8 FUESCOTT'S DfcAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS/ 

And tlie honest love you captured when you first sat on my 

knee, 
This is all I have to give you— so expect no more from me, " 

\* 

People'd said I couldn't marry the sweet girl I tried to court, 

Till we smilingly submitted a minority report ; 

Then they laid their theories over, with a quickness queer to 

see, 
And said they knew we'd marry, but we never could agree ; 
But we did not frame and hang up all the neighbors had to 

say, 
But ran our little heaven in our own peculiar way ; 
We started off quite jolly, wondrous full of health and cheer, 
And a general understanding that the road was pretty clear. 

So we lived and toiled and prospered ; and the little family 

party 
That came on from heaven to visit us were bright and hale 

and hearty ; 
And to-day we might ha* been there had 1 only just have 

known 
How to lay my road down solid, and let well enough alone, 
But I soon commenced a kicking in the traces, I confess : 
There was too much land that joined me that 1 didn't yet 

possess. 
When once he gets land-hungry, strange how ravenous one can 

be! 
'Twasn't long before I wanted all the ground that I could see. 
So I bought another eighty (not foreboding any harm), 
And for that and some down-money, put a mortgage on my 

farm. 
Then I bought another forty, hired some cash to fix up new, 
And to buy a covered carriage — and of course the mortgage 

grew. 
Now my wife was square against this, 'tis but right that you 

should know, 
(Though Tin very far from saying that I think it's always so) ; 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 9 

But she went in hearty with me, working hard from day to 

day, 
For we knew that life was business, now we had that debt to 

pay. 

We worked through Spring and Winter, through Summer and 

through Fall, 
But that mortgage worked the hardest and the steadiest of us 

all; 
It worked on nights and Sundays ; it worked each holiday ; 
It settled down among us, and it never went away. 
Whatever we kept from it seemed a'most as bad as theft ; 
It watched us every minute, and it ruled us right and left. 
The rust and blight were with us sometimes, and sometimes 

they were not ; 

The dark-browed, scowling mortgage was ever on the spot. 
The weevil and the cut-worm they went as well as came ; 
The mortgage stayed forever, eating hearty all the same. 
It nailed up every window, stood guard at every door, 
And happiness and sunshine made their home with us no 

more ; 
Till with failing crops and sickness we got stalled upon the 

grade, 
And there came a dark day on us, when the interest wasn't 

paid ; 
And there came a sharp foreclosure, and I kind o' lost my head, 
And grew weary and discouraged, and the farm was sold and 

fled. 
The children left and scattered when they hardly yet were 

grown ; 
My wife she pined and perished, an' I found myself alone. 
What she died of was " a mystery," and the doctors never 

knew ; 
But /knew she died of mortgage— just as well's I wanted to. 
If to trace a hidden sorrow were within the doctors' art, 
They'd ha' found a mortgage lying on that woman's broken 

heart. 



10 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Two different kinds of people the devil most assails ; 
One is the man who conquers ; the other, he who fails. 
But still I think the last kind are soonest to give up, 
And to hide their sorry faces behind the shameful cup ; 
Like some old king or other, whose name Pve somehow lost, 
They straightway tear their eyes out, just when they need 'em 

most. 
When once I had discovered that the debt I could not pay, 
I tried to liquidate it in a rather common way : 
I used to meet in private a fellow-financier, 
And we would drink ourselves worth ten thousand dollars 

clear — 
As easy a way to prosper as ever has been found, 
But one's a heap sight poorer when he gets back to the ground. 



Of course I ought to ha' braced up, an' worked on all the same ; 

I ain't a- trying- to shirk out, or cover up from blame ; 

But still I think men often, it safely may be said, 

Are driven to tempations, in place of being led ; 

And if that tyrant mortgage hadn't cracked its whip at me, 

I shouldn't have constituted the ruin that you see. 

For though Pve never stolen or defaulted, please to know, 

Yet, socially considered, I am pretty middlin' low. 

I am helpless and forsaken ; I am childless and alone ; 

I haven't a single dollar that it's fair to call my own ; 

My old age knows no comfort, my heart is scant o* cheer ; 

The children they run from me as soon as I come near ; 

The women shrink and tremble— their alms are fear-bestowed ; 

The dogs howl curses at me, and hunt me down the road. 

My home is where night finds me ; my friends are few and 

cold ; 
Oh, little is there in this world for one who's poor and old ! 
But I'm wealthy in experience, all put up in good advice, 
To take or not to take it, with no difference in the price ; 
You may have it, an' thrive on it, pr run round it, as you 

please, 
But I generally give it wrapped up in such words as these ; 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 11 

Worm or beetle, drought or tempest, on a farmer's land may 

fall, 
But for first-class ruination, trust a mortgage 'gainst them all. 



THE CHILD AND HETD. 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

Come, maidens and matrons, to caress 

Wiesbaden's gentle hind : 
And, smiling, deck its glossy neck 

With forest flowers entwined. 

'Twas after church — on Ascension day— 

When organs ceased to sound, 
Wiesbaden's people crowded gay 

The deer park's pleasant ground. 

Here came a twelve years' married pair — 

And with them wander'd free 
Seven sons and daughters blooming fair, 

A gladsome sight to see 1 

Their Wilhelm, little innocent, 

The youngest of the seven, 
Was beautiful as painters' paint — 

The cherubim of heaven. 

By turns he gave his hand, so dear, 

To parent, sister, brother, 
And each, that he was safe and near, 

Confided in the other. 

But Wilhelm loved the field flowers bright, 
With love beyond all measure ; 

And culled them with as keen delight 
As misers gather treasure. 



12 PKESCOTT'S DRAWmG-KOOM RECITATIONS, 

Unnoticed he contrived to glide 

Adown a greenwood alley, 
By lilies lured — that grew beside 

A streamlet in the valley. 

And there, where under beech and birch 

The rivulet meander'd, 
He stray'd, till neither shout nor search, 

Could track where he had wander'd. 

Still louder with increasing dread, 
They called his darling name ; 

But 'twas like speaking to the dead — 
An echo only came. 

Hours pass'd till evening's beetle roams, 
And blackbirds' songs begin ; 

Then all went back to happy homes 
Save Wilhelm's kith and kin. 

The night came on — all others slept 

Their cares away till morn ; 
But sleepless all night watch'd and wept 
That family forlorn. 

Betimes the town crier had been sent 
With loud bell up and down ; 

And told th' afflicting accident 
Throughout Wiesbaden's town. 

The news reach'd Nassau's Duke — ere earth 
Was gladden'd with the lark. 

He sent a hundred soldiers forth 
To ransack all his park. 

But though they roused up beast and bird 

From many a nest and den, 
No signal of success was heard 

From all the hundred men. 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 13 

A second morning's light expands, 

Unfound the infant fair ; 
And Wilhelm's household wring their hands 

Abandon'd to despair, 

But, haply, a poor artizan, 

Search'd ceaselessly till he 
Found safe asleep the little one, 

Beneath a beechen tree. 

His hand still grasp'd a bunch of flowers ; 

And — true, though wondrous — near, 
To sentry his reposing hours, 

There stood a female deer, 

Who dipp'd her horns at all that pass'd 

The spot where Wilhelin lay ; 
Till force was had to hold her fast, 

And bear the boy away. 

Hail ! sacred love of childhood — hail ! 

How sweet it is to trace 
Thine instinct in Creation's scale, 

Even 'neath the human race. 

To this poor wanderer of the wild, 

Speech, reason were unknown — 
And yet she watched a sleeping child, 

As if it were her own ! 



BABY BUNN. 

Winsome baby Bunn ! 
Brighter than the stars that rise 
In the dusky evening skies, 
Browner than the ravens wing, 
Clearer than the woodland spring, 
Are the eyes of baby Bunn I 

Winsome babv Bunn ! 



14 FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Smile, mother, smile, 
Thinking softly all the while 
Of a tender, blissful day 
When the dark eyes, so like these 

Of the cherub on your knees, 
Stole your girlish heart away. 
Oh ! the eyes of baby Bunn ! 
Rarest mischief will they do, 
When once old enough to steal 
What their father stole from you ! 
Smile, mother, smile ! 

Winsome baby Bunn ! 
Milk-white lilies half unrolled, 
Set in calyces of gold, 
Cannot make his forehead fair, 
With its rings of yellow hair ! 
Scarlet berry cleft in twain, 
By a wedge of pearly grain, 
Is the mouth of baby Bunn ! 

Winsome baby Bunn ! 

Weep, mother, weep 
For the little one'asleep 
With his head against your breast ! 
Never in the coming years, 
Though he seeks for it with tears 
Will he find so sweet a rest. 
Oh, the brow of baby Bunn 1 
Oh the scarlet mouth of Bunn ! 
One must wear it's crown of thorns, 
Drink its cup of gall must one ! 
- Though the trembling lips shall shrink 
White with anguish as they drink, 
And the temple sweat with pain — 
Drops of blood like purple rain — 
Weep, mother, weep. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 15 

Winsome baby Bunn ! 
Not the sea- shell's palest tinge, 
Not the daisy's rose white fringe, 
Not the softest, faintest glow 
Of the sunset on the snow, 
Is more beautiful and sweet 
Than the wee pink hands and feet 
Of the little baby Bunn — 
Winsome baby Bunn ! 
Feet like these may lose the way, 
Wandering blindly from the right, 
Pray, and sometimes will your prayers 
Be to them like golden stairs 
Built through darkness into light. 
Oh, the dimpled feet of Bunn, 
In their silken stockings dressed ; 
Oh, the dainty hands of Bunn, 
Hid like rose leaves in your breast 
These will grasp at jewels rare, 
But to find them empty air ; 
Those shall falter many a day, 
Bruised and bleeding by the way, 
Ere they reach the land of rest ! 

Pray, mother, pray ! 



THE SUNSET'S GATE. 

J. C. A. 

In they came, racing and tumbling, 

With faces and voices forlorn, 
With hair all toss'd and disheveled, 

And garments all streaming and torn. 

" For, oh," said the weary children, 
" We have rambled afar to-night, 

Along the path by the river, 

Where the meadow-sweet flowers are white. 



16 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

And we've climbed the hill of the fairies 
Where, they say, if you only wait, 
You will see, on a Summer's evening, 
The opening of sunset's gate ; 

"And the wondrous magic castles, 
With turrets of jewels and gold, 

And knights in their glittering armor, 
Like the stories of days of old. 

" When, oh, such a radiance, mother, 
Came flooding all through the air ! 

Everything round grew golden — 
Gold above, beyond, everywhere ; 

■ ' And far away in the distance, 
As I shaded my eyes with my hand, 

Not castles we children speak of, 
But the gates of the Better Land. 

" But the way was hot and dusty. 
And the hill was so hard to climb, 

W r ith tangle of briars and brushwood, 
We took such a weary time, 

" That when we had reached the summit 
All was dreary and chill and gray ; 

No vestige of gold and crimson — 
The castles had faded away." 

Then a voice came from little Amy, 
With a happy secret confessed : 

" I am not strong like the others, 
So I could not climb with the rest. 

" I sat down beside the river 

To wait, on a mossy stone, 
I could not help grieving a little, 

As I found myself alone ; 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 17 

" For I saw bright bands of angels, 

With their wings all radiant white, 
And I think I heard them singing — 

They will come in my dreams to-night. " 



The mother smiled as she listened, 
While she comforted and caressed, 

And saw each tired wanderer 
Gathered safe in the household nest. 

She sat in the fading twilight, 
As the murmur of day grew still, 

And thought how life finds an emblem 
In the children's climbing the hill. 

Ah, the dreary ways we traverse, 

Through the storm and tempest and heat I 
Ah, the briars which clog our footsteps, 

And the stones which bruise our feet ! 

As we pant and toil and struggle 

For the long-cherished hopes of years — 

As vain, alas ! as the castles 
The children bemoaned in their tears — 

We find but the chill of failure, 

Disappointment, and sorrow's blight, 

While the evening's creeping shadows 
Tell of death's approaching night. 

But, thank God, there comes so often, 
To the patient hearts who wait, 

The gleam of God's blessed angels 

Through the opening of Heaven's Gate. 



18 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

BIDING DOWN. 

NORA PERRY. 

Oil, did you see him riding down, 
And riding down while all the town 
Came out to see, came out to see, 
And all the bells rang mad with glee 1 

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out, 
The bells ring out, the people shout, 
And did you hear that cheer on cheer 
That over all the bells rang clear ? 

And did you see the waving flags, 

The fluttering flags, the tattered flags, 

Red, white and blue, shot through and through, 

Baptized with battle's deadly dew ? 

And did you hear the drum's gay beat, 
The drum's gay beat, the bugles sweet, 
The cymbal's clash, the cannon's crash. 
That rent the air with sound and flash? 

And did you see me waiting there, 
Just waiting there and watching there, 
One little lass, amid the mass 
That pressed to see the hero pass ? 

And did you see him smiling down, 
And smiling down, as riding down 
With slowest pace, with stately grace, 
He caught the vision of a face. 

My face uplifted red and white, 
Turned red and white with sheer delight 
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes, 
Outflashing in their swift surprise? 

Oh, did you see how swift it came, 
How swift it came, like sudden flame, 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 19 

That smile to me, to only me, 
The little lass that blushed to see ? 

And at the windows all along, 
Oh, all along, a lovely throng 
Of faces beyond compare, 
Beamed out upon him, riding there ! 

Each face was like a radiant gem, 
A sparkling gem, and yet for them 
No swift smile came, like sudden flame, 
No arrowy glance took certain aim. 

He turned away from all their grace, 
From all that grace of perfect face, 
He turned to me, to only me, 
The little lass who blushed to see ! 



OLD TIMES. 



There's a beautiful song on the slumbrous air, 
That drifts through the valley of dreams ; 
It comes from a clime where the roses were, 
And a tuneful heart and bright brown hair 
That waved in the morning beams. 

Soft eyes of azure and eyes of brown, 
And snow-white foreheads are there ; 
A glimmering Cross and a glittering Crown, 
A thorny bed and a couch of down, 
Lost hopes and leaflets of prayer. 

A breath of Spring in the breezy woods, 
Sweet wafts from the quivering pines- 
Blue violet eyes beneath green hoods, 
A bubble of brooklets, a scent of buds, 
Bird- warblers and clambering vines. 



20 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

A rosy wreath and dimpled hand, 
A ring and a slighted vow — 
Three gulden links of a broken band, 
A tiny track on the snow-white sand, 
A tear and a sinless brow. 

There's a tincture of grief in the beautiful song 
That sobs on the slumbrous air, 
And lonelinesss felt in the festive throng, 
Sinks down on the soul as it trembles along 
From a clime where the roses were. 

We heard it first at the dawn of day, 
And it mingled with matin chimes, 
But years have distanced the beautiful lay, 
And its melody floweth from far away 
And we call it now Old Times. 



THE BUKIAL OF MOSES. 

MRS. ALEXANDER. 

By Nebo's lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan's wave, 
In a vale in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave ; 
But no man dug that sepulchre, 

And no man saw it e'er, 
For the angels of God upturned the sod, 

And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 

That ever passed on earth ; 
But no man heard the tramping, 

Or saw the train go forth ; 
Noiselessly as the daylight 

Comes when the night is done, 
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 

Grows into the great sun. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 21 

Noiselessly as the Spring-time 

Her crown of verdure weaves, 
And all the trees on all the hills 

Open their thousand leaves. 
So, without sound of music 

Or voice of them that wept, 
Silently down from the mountain crown 

The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle, 

On gray Beth-peor's height, 
Out of his rocky eyrie, 

Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
Perchance the lion, stalking, 

Still shuns the hallowed spot ; 
For beast and bird have seen and heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

So when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades in the war, 
With arms reversed and muffled drum, 

Follow the funeral car. 
They show the banners taken, 

They tell his battles won, 
And after him lead his masterless steed, 

While peals the minute gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land, 

Men lay the sage to rest, 
And give the bard an honored place, 

With costly marble dressed. 
In the great minster transept, 

Where sweet lights like glories fall 
And the chorus sings and the organ rings 

Along the emblazoned wall. 

This was the bravest warrior 

That ever buckled sword ; 
*This the most gifted poet 

That ever breathed a word : 



22 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

And never earth's philosopher 

Traced, with his golden pen, 
On the deathless page, truths half as sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honors ? 
» The hill- side for his pall ; 
To lie in state while angels wait 

With stars for tapers tall ; 
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, 

Over his bier to wave ; 
And God's own hand in that lonely land 

To lay him in the grave. 

In that deep grave without a name, 

Whence his uncoffined clay 
Shall break again — oh, wondrous thought — 

Before the judgment day. 
And stand with glory wrapped around 

On the hills he never trod, 
And speak of the strife that won our life 

With the incarnate Son of God. 

Oh, lonely tomb in Moab's land, 

Oh, dark Beth-peor's hill, 
Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still. 
God hath His mysteries of grace, 

Ways that we cannot tell ; 
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 

Of Him he loved so well. 



PATCHWORK PHILOSOPHY. 

I've been thinking some, Keziah. 

While a- sitting at my work — 
Though I ain't the sort of woman 

*To let thinking make me shirk — 






prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Ez I say, IVe been a thinking 

What a very curious way 
Our lives is patched together, 

Cut and fit 'em as we may ! 

It's a square of blue or crimson, 

Then a square of dark or light, 
Then a half of red and yellow. 

By a half of solid*white, 
And with all our kalkilations 

Ez to how the patterns run, 
We can never tell eggsackly 

Until the quilt is done. 

There's a bit of blue just yonder, 
'Tis as bright as a June sky, yet 

'Tain't your flimsy kind of cambric 
That you daren't as much as wet. 

It's been five- and -twenty Summers 
Since that cambric gown was new, 

And those withered cheeks and roses 

That were best set off by blue. 

• 
Then that laylock, on the corner, 

It belonged to Betsy Wade ; 
She was alius sort of shiftless, 

Bought what was sure to fade. 
But she somehow took folk's fancies ; 

For men are ne'er o'erwise, 
And the weakest sort of wimmen 

Can throw sawdust in their eyes. 

And that check, 'twas off a weskit 

That I made for Abel Green, 
We was — yes, chile — nigh to be married, 

When — when Betsey came between, 
Wal, 'tain't worth talking over, 

Howsoe'er the squares may fit, 
Ye can never tell, till j'ining, 

Es to how the colors fit. 



24 FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

For the blue will spile the purple, 

And the laylock spile the gray, 
And the squares ye match so certain 

Will match jes the other way. 
And with all your careful patching, 

You are alius sure to find 
That the pattern, when its finished, 

Ain't exactly to your mind, 

So Keziah, I've been thinking, 

Here a-sitting at my work — 
Though I ain't the sort of woman 

To let fancies make me shirk — 
That our lives are like a patchwork, 

With its squares of dark and light, 
And there's only One above us 

Who can do the j'ining right S 



THE WHITE DOTE, 

EREDERIKA BREMER. 

There sitteth a dove so white and fair, 

All on the lily spray, 
And she listeneth when to our Saviour dear 

The little children pray. 

Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, 

And to Heaven's gate hath sped ; 
And unto the Father in Heaven she bears 

The prayers that the children have said. 
And back she comes from Heaven's gate, 

And brings — that dove so mild — 
From the Father in Heaven who hears her speak, 

A blessing for every child. 

Then, children, lift up a pious prayer ; 

It hears whatever you say, 
That heavenly dove so white and fair, 

That sits on the lily spray. 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 25 

THE LIFE BOAT 

DAGONET. 

Been out in the lifeboat often? Ay, ay, sir, oft enough. 
When it's rougher than this ? Lor' bless you ! this ain't what 

ice calls rough ; 
It's when there's a gale a* bio win', and the waves run in and 

break 
On the shore with a roar like thunder and the white cliffs seem 

to shake ; 
When the sea is a hell of waters, and the bravest holds his 

breath 
As he hears the cry for the lifeboat — his summons, maybe, to 

death — 
That's when we call it rough, sir : but, if we can get her afloat, 
There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the boat. 

You've heard of the Royal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last 

year ; 
Yon be the rocks she struck on — the boat as went out be here ; 
The night as she struck was reckoned the w r orst as ever we had, 
And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awful bad. 
The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and to tell you the 

truth, sir, then 
Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men. 
The single chaps was willin', and six on 'em volunteered, 
But most on us here is married, and the wives that night was 

skeered. 

Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives, 
But death that night looked certain — and our wives be only 

wives ; 
Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir ; but here, when the man 

lies dead, 
'Tain't only a husband missin', it's the children's daily bread. 



26 PRESCOTT f S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

So our women began to whimper and beg o' the chaps to stay — 

I only heerd on it after, for that night I was kept away. 

I was up at my cottage, younder, where the wife lay nigh her 

end, 
She'd been ailin' all the winter, and nothin* 'ud make her mend. 

The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and 

prayed, 
With my eyes as red as a babby's, that Death's hand might yet 

be stayed. 
I heerd the wild wind howlin', and I looked on the wasted form, 
And thought of the awful shipwreck as had come in the ragin' 

storm ; 
The wreck of my little homestead — the wreck of my dear old 

wife, 
Who'd sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous waves 

of life, 
And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been my harbor 

lights, 
To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest nights. 

She knew she was sinkin' quickly — she knew as her end was 

nigh, 
But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart must 

lie, 
For we'd had one great big sorrow with Jack, our only son — 
He'd got into trouble in London, as lots o' the lads ha' done ; 
Then he'd bolted, his masters told us — he was alius what folks 

call wild. 
From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never smiled. 
We heerd no more about him, we never knew where he went, 
And his mother pined and sickened for the message he never 

sent. 

I had my work to think of ; but she had her grief to nurse, 
So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health grew worse 
and worse. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 27 

And the night as the Royal Helen went down on yonder sands 
I sat and watched her dyin', holdin' her wasted hands. 
She moved in her doze a little, then her eyes were opened wide, 
And she seemed to be seekin' somethin' as she looked from side 

to side ; 
Then half to herself she whispered, " Where's Jack, to say 

good-bye ? 
It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die ! " 



I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down 

my cheek, 
And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't speak, 
When the door of the room burst open, and my mates were 

there outside 
With the news that the boat was launchin'. " You're wanted ! " 

their leader cried. 
'SYou've never refused to go, John : you'll put these cowards 

right, 
There's a dozen of lives, maybe, John, as lie in our hands to- 
night !" 
'Twas old Ben Brown, the captain ; he'd laughed at the women's 

doubt. 
We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was 

goin' out. 



I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed — 
" I can't go, mate," I murmured ; " in an hour she may be dead. 
I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone." 
As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my wife was 

thrown ; 
And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look on me, 
While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin' 

sea. 
Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, " Go, and God's 

will be done ! 
For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's son." 



28 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Her lie ad was full of the boy, sir — she was thinking, maybe, 
some day 

For lack of a hand to help him his life might be cast away. 

" Go, John, and the Lord watch o'er you ! and spare me to see 
the light, 

And bring you safe, " she whispered, " out of the storm to- 
night." 

Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to hide my tears, 

And my mates outside, when they saw me, set up three hearty 
cheers ; 

But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned to old Ben 
and said. 

" I'll see her again, maybe, lad, when the sea gives up its dead." 

We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was the 

goal in view, 
And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it through. 
But our boat she stood it bravely, and weary and wet and weak, 
We drew in hail of the vessel we had dared so much to seek, 
But just as we come upon her she gave a fearful roll, 
And went down in the seethin' whirlpool with every livin' soul ! 
We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was dark — 
But only the wild wind answered the cries from our plungin' 

bark. 

I was strainin' my eyes and watchin*, when I thought I heard a 

cry, 
And I saw past our bows a somethin* on the crest of a wave 

dashed by ; 
I stretched out my hand to seize it, I dragged it aboard, and 

then 
I stumbled, and struck my forrud, and fell like a log on Ben, 
I remember a hum of voices, and then I knowed no more 
Till I came to my senses here, sir — here, in my home ashore. 
My forrud was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little bed — • 
I'd slipped, so they told me arter, and a rullock had struck my 

head. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 29 

Then my mates came in and whispered ; they'd heard I was 
cornin' round. 

At first I could scarcely hear 'em, it seemed like a buzzin' 
sound ; 

But as soon as my head got clearer, and accustomed to hear 'em 
speak, 

I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long week. 

I guessed what the lads was hidin', for their poor old ship- 
mate's sake. 

I could see by their puzzled faces they'd got some news to 
break ; 

So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben, " Look 
here ! 

I'm able to bear it now, lad — tell me, and never fear." 

Not one on 'em ever answered, but presently Ben goes out, 
And the others slinks away like, and I says, " What's this 

about ? " 
Why can't they tell me plainly as the poor old wife is dead. 
Then I fell again on the pillows, and I hid my achin' head. 
I lay like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry " John ! " 
And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed upon 
For there by the bedside, standin' up and well was my wife, 
And who do ye think was with her ? Why, Jack, as large as 

life ! 

It was him as I'd saved from drownm' the night as the life boat 

went 
To the wreck of the Royal Helen ; 'twas that as the vision 

meant. 
They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by his mother's 

bed, 
And the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle from the 

dead ; 
And mother and son together had nursed me back to life, 
And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son and 

wife. 






80 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Jack ? He's our right hand now, sir ; 'twas Providence pulled 

him through — 
He's alius the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a crew. 



APPEEL TOE ABE TO THE SEXTANT OP THE BRICK 
MEETINOUSE. 

sextant of the meetinouse, wich sweeps. 
And dusts, or is supposed to ! and makes fiers, 

And lites the gas, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose, 

In which case it smells orful — worse than lampile ; 

And wrings the Bel and toles when men dyes 

To the grief of surviving pardner, and sweaps pathes ; 

And for the servases gits $100 per annum, 

Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it ; 

Getin up befoar starlite in all wethers and 

Kindling fiers when the wether is as cold 

As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlers ; 

1 wouldn't be hired to do it for no some. 
But Sextant ! there are 1 kermoddity 
Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin, 
Worth more than any thing exsep the Sole of Mann ; 
I mean pewer Are, sextant, i mean pewer Are ! 

O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant no 

What on airth to do with itself, but flys about 

Scatterin leavs and blowin off men's hatts ; 

In short, its jest " free as are " out dores. 

But o sextant, in our church it's scarce as piety, 

Scarce as bank bills when agints beg for mischuns. 

Wich some say is purty often (taint nothin to me, 

Wat i give aint nothin to nobody ;) but o sextant, 

U shet 560 men, wimmin and children, 

Speshally the latter, up in a tite place — 

Some has bad breths, none aint 2 swete, 

Some is fevery, some is scroflous, and some has bad teath, 

And some haint none, and some aint over cleen ; 



pkescott's drawing-room recitations. 31 

But every 1 on them breethes in & out and out and in 
Say 50 times a minit, or three thousand breths an hour. 
How long will a church full of are last at that rate ? 

1 ask you, say 15 minutes, and then what's to be did? 
Why then they must brethe it all over agin. 

And then agin, and so on, till each has took it down 

At least 10 times, and let it up agin, and wats more, 

The same individivle don't have the privilidge 

Of brethen his own are, and no one else's ; 

Each one must take whatever comes to him. 

O, sextant, doant you know our lungs is belluses ; 

To bio the fier of life, and keep it from 

Goin out ; and how can bellusses bio without wind, 

Aint wind are ? i put it to your conschens, 

Are is the same to us as milk to babies, 

Or water is to fish, or pendlums is to clox, 

Or roots and airbs unto an injun Doctor, 

Or little pills unto an omepath, 

Or boys to girls. Are is for us to brethe. 

What signifies who Preaches if i cant brethe ? 

Wats Pol ? Wats Pollus ? to sinners who are ded ? 

Ded for want of breth ? why sextant, when we dye 

Its only cause we cant brethe no more — that's all. 

And now, o sextant, let me beg of you 

2 let a little are into our church. 
(Pewer are is certain proper for the pews) 
And do it weak days, and Sunday tew — 
It aint much trouble — only make a hole 
And the are will come in of itself ; 

(It luvs to cum in whare it can get warm ;) 
And o how it will rouse the people up, 
And sperit up the preecher, and stop garps 
And yawns and fidgits as effectooal 
As wind on the dry Boans the Profiit tells of. 



82 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 



THE OLD OAHOE. 

Where tlie rocks are gray and the shore is steep, 
And the waters below look dark and deep ; 
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride, 
Leans gloomily o'er the murky tide ; 
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank, 
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank ; 
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through- 
There lies at its moorings the old canoe. 

The useless paddles are idly dropped, 

Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm has lopped, 

And crossed on the railing, one over one, 

Like the folded hands, when the work is done ; 

While busily back and forth between, 

The spider stretches her silvery screen ; 

And the solemn owl with his weird " too-hoo." 

Settles down on the side of the old canoe. 

The stern half sunk in the slimy wave, 

Rots slowly away in its living grave, 

And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay, 

Hiding its mouldering dust away : 

Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, 

Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower ; 

While many a blossom of loveliest hue 

Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. 

The currentless waters are dead and still 

But the light wind plays with the boat at will ; 

And lazily, in and out again, 

It floats the length of the rusty chain, 

Like the weary march of the hands of time 

That meet and part at the noon-tide chime ; 

And the shore is kissed, at each turning anew, 

By the dripping bow of the old canoe 



TRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 33 

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand, 
We have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, 
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick ; 
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick ; 
And laughed as we leaned o'er the rocking side, 
And looked below in the broken tide, 
To see that the faces and boats were two 
That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 

But now, as in fancy, o'er the crumbling side 

I look below in the sluggish tide, 

The face that I see there is graver grown, 

And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone, 

And the hands that lent to the light skirl wings 

Have grown familiar with sterner things ; 

But I love to think of the hours that sped 

As we rocked where the whirls their white spray shed, 

Ere the blossom waved or the green grass grew 

O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe. 



MT KING, MY KUB, 

He is standing somewhere, my King, I know, 
With the glory of manhood upon his brow, 

And a light of love in his eyes ; 
I know not when or where we shall meet, 
But this I know, that his form I will greet 

With a loving and glad surprise. 

He may come in the morning, bright and fair, 
When the sunlight kisses my gold brown hair, 

And crown me for his Queen : 
Or yet he may come at the twilight hour, 
That magic hour of love's sweet power, 

The daylight and starlight between. 









84 pkebcott's drawing-room recitations. 

It matters not when, and it matters not how 
My King shall come to claim my vow 

Of allegiance fond and true ; 
But when he comes, this King of mine, 
With his royal heart and a right divine, 

He shall find me loyal too. 

I will not picture his form or face, 
Nor a single kingly lineament trace, 

Nor his ancestry, humble or great ; 
But he must be free from reproach or blame, 
With noble purpose and lofty aim, 

This king of my life and my fate. 

His words must be pure and brave and true, 
Like the kingly soil in which they grew, 

The garden of his heart ; 
And e'en like the royal knights of yore, 
His deeds of honor forever more 

New strength to his morals will impart. 

And what shall I give him my Lord, my King, 
When straight to the door of my heart he shall bring 

The jewel of his love? 
Forever its sacred lustre keeping, 
E'en should the angels of light be weeping, 

Or the stars should fall from above. 

My heart's one love, and its full devotion, 
With every thought and sweet emotion, 

Kept pure by the spirit above : 
A trust never changing, eternal and true, 
As the glorious sun in this heaven of blue, 

A woman's undying love. 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. **5 



EXCLAMATORY. 

At church I sat within her pew, — 
O Pew ! 

Bat there I heard 

No pious word, — 
I saw alone her eyes of blue ! 

I saw her bow her head so gracious, — 
O Gracious ! 

The choir sang, 

The organ rang, — 
And seemed to fill the building spacious. 

I could not hear the gospel law, — 
O Law ! 

My future bride 

Was by my side, — 
I found all else a mighty bore ! 

And so when pealed the organ's thunder, — 
O Thunder ! 

I fixed my eyes, 

In mute surprise, 
On her whose beauty was a wonder. 

To me that maiden was most dear, — 
O Dear ! 

And she was mine, — 

Joy too divine 
For human words to picture here. 

Her love seemed like a prayer to bless me, — 
O Bless me ! 

Before she came 

My life was tame, — 
My rarest joys could but oppress me. 



PBESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

The service done, we sought the shore, — 
O Shore ! 

And there we walked, 

And sadly talked, — 
More sadly talked than e'er before. 

I thought she was the type of goodness, . 
O Goodness ! 

But on that day 

I heard her say 
Plain words whose very tone was rudeness. 

We strolled beyond the tide-mill's dam, — 
O Dam I 

She jilted me, 

And now I see 
That woman's love is all a sham ! 



THE LAKE AND HEE YOUM 0HE& 

A lark who had her nest concealed, 
Says iEsop, in a barley field, 
Began as harvest time drew near, 
The reapers of the corn to fear : 
Afraid they would her nest descry, 
Before her tender brood could fly, 
She charged them, therefore, every day, 
Before for food she flew away, 
To watch the farmer in her stead, 
And listen well to all he said. 

It chanced one day, she scarce was gone, 
Ere came the farmer and his son. 
The farmer well his field surveyed, 
And sundry observations made ; 



prescott's drawing-room recitations, 87 

At last, " I tell you what " said he, 

u This wheat is fit to cut, I see : 

But we our neighbor's help must borrow, 

So tell them we begin to-morrow." 

Just after this the lark returned 

When from her brood the news she learn'd. 

"Ah ! dearest mother/' then said they, 

" Pray let us all be gone to-day." 

" My dears, " said she, " you need not fret, 

I shall not be uneasy yet ; 

For if he waits for neighbor's aid, 

The business will be long delay'd." 

At dawn she left her nest once more, 

And charged her young ones as before. 

At five the farmer came again, 
And waited for his friends in vain, 
" Well," said the man, " I fancy, son, 
These friends we can't depend upon ; 
To-morrow, early, mind you go, 
And let our own relations know." 
Again the lark approach'd her nest, 
When round her all her young ones press'd 
And told their mother, word for word, 
The fresh intelligence they'd heard. 

"Ah ! children, be at ease," said she ; 
" We're safe another day, I see : 
For these relations, you will find, 
Just like his friends, will stay behind." 
At dawn again the lark withdrew, 
And did again her charge renew. 

Once more the farmer early came, 
And found the case was just the same ; 
The day advanced, the sun was high ; 
But not a single help drew nigh. 






33 PRESCOTT S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Then said the farmer, " Hark ye, son, 

I see this job will not be done 

While thus we wait for friends and neighbors 

So you and Ml commence our labors ; 

To-morrow, early, we'll begin 

Ourselves, and get our harvest in." 

" Now," said the lark, when this she heard, 
" Our movement must not be deferr'd ; 
For if the farmer and his son 
Themselves begin, 'twill soon be done ;" 
The morrow proved the lark was right, 
For all was cut and housed by night. 



THE GHOST. 

"Tis about twenty years since Abel Law, 
A short, round-favored, merry 
Old soldier of the Revolutionary 
War 

Was wedded to 
A most abominable shrew. 
The temper, sir, of Shakespeare's Catherine 
Could no more be compared with hers, 
Than mine 
With Lucifer's. 

Her eyes were like a weasel's ; she had a harsh 
Face, like a cranberry marsh, 
All spread 

With spots of white and red ; 
Hair of the color of a wisp of straw, 
And a disposition like a cross-cut saw. 
The appellation of this lovely dame 
Was Ann or Nancy ; don't forget the name. 

Her brother David was a tall, 
Good-looking chap, and that was all ; 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 39 

One of your great, big nothings, as we say 

Here in Rhode Island, picking up old jokes 

And cracking tliena on other folks. 

Well, David undertook one night to play 

The Ghost, and frighten Abel, who, 

He knew, 

Would "be returning from a journey through 

A grove of forest wood 

That stood 

Below 

The house some distance, — half a mile, or so. 

With a long taper 

Cap of white paper, 

Just made to cover 

A wig, nearly as large over 

As a corn- basket, and a sheet 

With both ends made to meet 

Across his breast, 

(The way in which ghosts are always dressed,) 

He took 
His station near 
A huge oak-tree, 
Whence he could overlook 
The road, and see 
Whatever might appear. 

It happened that about an hour before, friend Abel 
Had left the table 

Of an inn, where he had made a halt, 
With horse and wagon, 
To taste a flagon 
Of malt 

Liquor, and so forth, which being done, 
He went on, 

Caring no more for twenty ghosts, 
Than if they were so many posts. 

David was nearly tired of waiting ; 
His patience was abating : 
At length, he heard the careless tones 



40 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Of his kinsman's voice, 

And then the noise 

Of wagon wheels among the stones. 

Abel was quite elated and was roaring 

With all his might, and pouring 

Out, in great coufusion, 

Scraps of old songs made in " the Revolution." 

His head was full of Bunker Hill and Trenton ; 
And jovially he went on, 
Scaring the whip-por- wills among the trees 
With rhymes like these ; — [Sings] 
" See the Yankees 

Leave the hill 

With baggernetts declining, 

With lopped -down hats 

And rusty guns, 

And leather aprons shining. 
* * See the Yankees— Whoa ! Why, what is that ? " 
Said Abel, staring like a cat, 
As, slowly, on the fearful figure strode 
Into the middle of the road. 

"My conscience ! what a suit of clothes ! 
Some crazy fellow, I suppose. 

Hallo ! friend what's your name ! by the powers of gin 
That's a strange dress to travel in." 
* ' Be silent, Abel ; for I now have come 
To read your doom ; 

Then hearken, while your fate I now declare. 
I am a spirit — " " I suppose you are ; 
But you'll not hurt me, and I'll tell you why : 
Here is a fact which you cannot deny ; — 
All spirits must be either good 
Or bad, — that's understood, — 
And be you good or evil, I am sure 
That I'm secure. 

If a good spirit, I am safe. If evil, — 
And I don't know but you may be the Devil, — 
If that's the case, you'll recollect, I fancy, 
. That lam married to your sister Nancy ! '* 



frescott's drawing-room recitations. 41 



ART. 

CHARLES SPRAGUE. 

When, from the sacred garden driven, 

Man fled before his Maker's wrath, 
An angel left her place in heaven, 

And crossed the wanderer's sunless path. 
'Twas Art ! sweet Art ! new radiance broke 

Where her light foot flew o'er the ground, 
And thus, with seraph voice, she spoke : 

" The curse a blessing shall be found ! " 

She led him through the trackless wild, 

Where noontide sunbeam never blazed 
The thistle shrunk, the harvest smiled, 

And Nature gladdened as she gazed. 
Earth's thousand tribes of living things, 

At Art's command, to him are given ; 
The village grows, the city springs, 

And point their spires of faith to heaven. 

He rends the oak, and bids it ride, 

To guard the shores its beauty graced ; 
He smites the rock, — upheaved in pride, 

See towers of strength and domes of taste. 
Earth's teeming caves their wealth reveal, 

Fire bears his banner on the wave, 
He bids the mortal poison heal, 

And leaps triumphant o'er the grave. 

He plucks the pearls that stud the deep, 

Admiring Beauty's lap to fill ; 
He breaks the stubborn marble's sleep, 

And mocks his own Creator's skill. 
With thoughts that swell his glowing soul, 

He bids the ore illume the page, 
And, proudly scorning Time's control, 

Commerces with an unborn age. 



42 PKESCOTT'S DBA WING ROOM RECITATIONS. 

In fields of air lie writes his name, 
And treads the chambers of the sky ; 

He reads the stars^and grasps the flame 
That quivers round the throne on high. 

In war renowned, in peace sublime, 
He moves in greatness and in grace ; 

His power, subduing space and time, 
Links realm to realm, and race to race. 



THE VAUDQIS PEDDLER 

" Oh, lady fair, these silks of mine 

Are beautiful and rare — 
The richest web of the Indian loom, 

Which beauty's self might wear : — 
And those pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, 

With whose radiant light they vie : — 
I have brought them with me a weary way ; 

Will my gentle lady buy ? " 

And the lady smiled on the worn old man 

Through the dark and clustering curls 
Which veiled her brow, as she bent to view 

His silks and glistening pearls ; 
And she placed their price in the old man's hand, 

And lightly turned away ; — 
But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call, 

" My gentle lady, stay ! 

" Oh, lady fair, I have yet a gem, 

Which purer lustre flings 
Than the diamond -flash of the jewelled crown 

On the lofty brow of kings ; 
A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, 

Whose virtue shall not decay ; 
Whose light shall be a spell to thee, 

And a blessing on the way ! " 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 43 

The ladv glanced at the mirroring steel 

Where her form of grace was seen, 
Where her eyes shone clear and her dark locks wav'd 

Their clasping pearls between ; 
" Bringing forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, 

Thou traveller gray and old ; 
And name the price of thy precious gem, 

And my pages shall count thy gold." 



The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, 

As a small and meagre book, 
Unchased with gold or diamond gem, 

From his folding robe he took ; 
"Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price — 

May it prove as such to thee ; 
Nay — keep thy gold — I ask it not, 

For the Word of God is free ! " 



The hoary traveller went his way ; 

But the gift he left behind 
Performed its pure and perfect work 

On that high-born maiden's mind ; 
And she hath turned from the pride of sin 

To the lowliness of truth, 
And given her human heart to God 

In its beautiful hour of youth. 



And she bath left the gray old halls, 

Where an evil faith had power, 
The courtly knights of her father's train, 

And the maidens of her bower ; 
And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales, 

By lordly feet untrod, 
Where the poor and needy of the earth are rich 

In the perfect love of God. 



44 FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 



LIEUTENANT LUPF. 

THOMAS HOOD. 

All you that are too fond of wine, 

Or any other stuff, 
Take warning by the dismal fate 

Of one Lieutenant Luff. 
A sober man he might have been 

Except in one regard — 
He did not like soft water, 

So he took to drinking hard. 

Said he, " Let others fancy slops, 

And talk in praise of tea, 
But I am no Bohemian, 

So do not like Bohea. 
If wine's a poison, so is tea, 

Though in another shape ; 
What matter whether one is killed 

By canister or grape ? " 

According to this kind of taste 

Did he indulge his drouth, 
And being fond of port, he made 

A port-hole of his mouth ! 
A single pint he might have sipped 

And not been out of sorts : 
In geologic phrase, the rock 

He split upon was quartz ! 

To " hold the mirror up to vice " 

With him was hard, alas ! 
The worse for wine he often was, 

But not " before a glass." 
No kind and prudent friend he had 

To bid him drink no more ; 
The only chequers in his course 

Were at the tavern door' 



FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 45 

Full soon the sad effects of this 

His frame began to show, 
For that old enemy the gout 

Had taken him in toe ! 
And joined with this an evil came 

Of quite another sort, 
For while he drank himself, his purse 

Was getting " something short. 



For want of cash he soon had pawned 

One-half that he possessed ; 
And drinking showed him duplicates 

Beforehand of the rest. 
So now his creditors resolved 

To seize on his assets, 
For why, they found that his half -pay 

Did not half pay his debts. 



But Luff contrived a novel mode 

His creditors to chouse, 
For his own execution he 

Put into his own house ! 
A pistol to the muzzle charged, 

He took devoid of fear ; 
Said he, "this barrel is my last, 

So now for my last bier." 



Against his lungs he aimed the slugs, 

And not against his brain ; 
So he blew out his lights, and none 

Could blow them in again ! 
A jury for a verdict met, 

And gave it in these terms : 
" We find as how as certain slugs 

Has sent him to the worms." 



46 FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 



IP I SHOULD DIE TO NIGHT. 

If I should die to-night, 
My friends would look upon my quiet face 
Before they laid it in its resting place. 
And deem that death had left it almost fair ; 
And laying snow-white flowers against my hair, 
Would*smooth it down with tearful tenderness, 
And fold my hands with lingering caress, 
Poor hands, so empty and so cold, to-night ! 

If I should die to-night, 
My friends would call to mind with loving thought 
Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought ; 
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said ; 
Errands on which the willing feet had sped : 
The memory of my selfishness and pride, 
My hasty words, would all be put aside. 
And so I should he loved and mourned to-night. 

If I should die to-night. 
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, 
Recalling other days remorsefully. 
The eyes that chill me with averted glance, 
Would look upon me as of yore perchance, 
' And soften, in the old, familiar way, 
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay? 
So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night. 

Oh, friends, I pray to-night, 
Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow, 
The way is lonely, let me feel them now. 
Think gently of me ; I am travel worn ; 
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. 
Forgive, oh hearts estranged, forgive, I plead ! 
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need 
The tenderness for which I long to-night. 






frescott's drawing-room recitations. 47 

MASTEEY OP MAN OVEE NATUEE. 

HORACE GREELEY. 

Let us look boldly, broadly out on Nature's wide domain. 
Let us note the irregular, yet persistent, advance of the pioneers 
of civilization, the forest conquerors, before whose lusty strokes 
and sharp blades the century-crowned wood-monarchs, rank 
after rank, come crashing to the earth. From age to age have 
they kept apart the soil and sunshine*, as they shall do no long- 
er. Onward, still onward, pours the army of axmen, and still 
before them bow their stubborn foes. But yesterday, their ad- 
vance was checked by the Ohio : to-day it crossed the Missouri, 
the Kansas, and is fast on the heels of the flying bufialo. In 
the eye of a true discernment, what host of Xerxes or Caesar, of 
Frederic or Xapoleon, ever equalled this in majesty, in greatness 
of conquest, or in true glory ? 

The mastery of man over Nature : this is an inspiring truth, 
which we must not suffer, from its familiarity, to lose its force. 
By the might of his intellect, Man has not merely made the el- 
ephant his drudge, the lion his diversion, the whale his maga- 
zine, but even the subtlest and most terrible of the elements is 
made the submissive instrument of his will. He turns aside, 
or garners up the lightning ; the rivers toil in his workshops ; 
the tides of ocean bear his burdens ; the hurricane rages for his 
use and profit. Fire and water struggle for mastery, that he 
may be whisked over hill and valley with the celerity of the 
sunbeam. 

The stillness of the forest midnight is broken by the snorting 
of the Iron Horse, as he drags the long trains from lakes to 
ocean with a slave's docility, a giant's strength. Up the long 
hill he labors, over the deep glen he skims, the tops of the tall 
trees swaying around and below his narrow path. His sharp, 
quick breathing bespeaks his impetuous progress ; a stream of 
fire reflects its course. On dashes the restless, tireless steed, 
and the morrow's sun shall find him at rest in some far mart 
of commerce, and the partakers of his wizard journey scattered 



48 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

to their vocations of trade or pleasure, unthinking of their 
night's adventure. What had old Romance wherewith to match 
the every-day realities of the Nineteenth Century ? 



THE SUNSET GATES OF GOLD. 

ROSE HARTWICK THORPE. 

There's a lovely land o'er the sunset sea, 
Whose splendor no toDgue hath told, 

But a glimpse of its glory came to me 
Through the sunset gates of gold. 

A glimpse of its glory, wondrous bright, 
When the white clouds backward rolled, 

There shone a radiant, dazzling light 
Through the sunset gates of gold. 

Oh ! I long to sail the bright sea o'er, 

That mystic land to behold, 
Where loved and lost ones have gone before 

Through the sunset gates of gold. 

No pain or sorrow can eome to them, 
In the Saviour's sheltering fold, 

They'll stand on the shore to greet me, when 
I pass through the gates of gold. 

It was only a glimpse that came to me 
As the white clouds backward rolled, 

Across the waves of the amber sea 
Through the sunset gates of gold. 

But it thrilled my heart as its glory shone 
Through the distance, gray and cold, 

For I caught a glimpse of my darling's home 
Through the sunset gates of gold. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 41) 



QUIOK! MAN THE LIFE BOAT! 

Quick ! man the life-boat ! See yon bark 

That drives before the blast ? 
There's a rock ahead, the fog is dark, 

And the storm comes thick and fast. 
Can human power, in such an hour, 

Avert the doom that's o'er her ? 
Her mainmast's gone, but she still drives on 

To the fatal reef before, 
The life-boat ! Man the life-boat ! 

Quick ! man the life-boat ! hark ! the gun 

Booms through the vapory air ; 
And see ! the signal nags are on, 

And speak the ship's despair. 
That forked flash, that pealing crash, 

Seemed from the wave to sweep her : 
She's on the rock, with a terrible shock, — 

And the wail comes louder and deeper. 

The life-boat ! Man the life-boat ! 

Quick ! man the life-boat ! See — the crew 

Gaze on their watery grave : 
Already, some, a gallant few, 

Are battling with the wave ; 
And one there stands, and wrings his hands 

As thoughts of home come o'er him ; 
For his wife and child, through the tempest wild, 

He sees on the heights before him. 
The life-boat ! Man the life-boat ! 

Speed, speed the life-boat \ Off she goes ! 

And, as they pulled the oar, 
From shore and ship a cheer arose, 

That startled ship and shore. 
Life-saving ark ! yon fated bark 



50 prescott's pra wing -room recitations. 

Has liuman lives within her ; 
And dearer than gold is the wealth untold, 
Thou'lt save if thou canst win her. 
On, life-boat ! Speed thee, life-boat ! 

Hurrah ! the life-boat dashes on, 

Though darkly the reef may frown ; 
The rock is there — the ship is gone 

Full twenty fathoms down. 
But cheered by hope, the seamen cope 

With the billows single-handed : 
They are all in the boat ! — hurrah ! they're afloat I 

And now they are safely landed 

By the life-boat ! Cheer the life- boat I 



THE MISS-N0MERS. 

Miss Brown is exceedingly fair, 

Miss White is as red as a berry, 
Miss Black has a gray head of hair, 

Miss Graves is a flirt, ever merry. 
Miss Lightbody weighs sixteen stone, 

Miss Rich scarce can muster a guinea, 
Miss Hare wears a wig, and has none, 

Miss Solomon she's a sad ninny 

Miss Mildmay's a terrible scold, 

Miss Dove's ever cross and contrary, 
Miss Young is now grown very old, 

And Miss Heavyside's light as a fairy ! 
Miss Short is at least five feet ten, 

Miss Noble's of humble extraction, 
Miss Love has a hatred toward men, 

And Miss Still is forever in action. 

Miss Green is a regular blue, 

Miss Scarlet looks pale as a lily, 
Miss Violet never shrinks from our view, 

And Mis3 Wiseman thinks all the men silly. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 51 

Miss Goodchild's a gloomy young elf, 

Miss Lion's, from terror, a fool, 
Miss Mee's not at all like myself, 

Miss Carpenter no one can rule. 

Miss Saddler ne'er mounted a horse, 

While Miss Groom from the stable will run, 
Miss Killmore can't look on a corse, 

And Miss Aim well ne'er levelled a gun. 
Miss Greathead has no brains at all, 

Miss Heartwell is ever complaining, 
Miss Dance has ne'er been at a ball, 

Over hearts Miss Fairweather likes reigning. 

Miss Wright, she is constantly wrong, 

Miss Tickle, alas ! is not funny, 
Miss Singer ne'er warbled a song, 

And, alas ! poor Miss Cash has no money I 
Miss Hatemen would give all she's worth 

To purchase a man to her liking, 
Miss Merry is shocked at all mirth, 

Miss Boxer the men don't mind striking. 

Miss Bliss does with sorrow o'erflow, 

Miss Hope in despair seeks the tomb, 
Miss Joy still anticipates woe, 

And Miss Charity's " never at home." 
Miss Hamlet resides in a city, 

The nerves of Miss Steadfast are shaken, 
Miss Prettyman's beau is not pretty, 

Miss Faithful her love has forsaken. 

Miss Porter despises all froth, 

Miss Scales they'll make wait, I'm thinking, 
Miss Meekly is apt to be wroth, 

Miss Lofty to meanness is sinking. 
Miss Seemore's as blind as a bat, 

Miss Last at a party is first, 
Miss Brindle dislikes a striped cat, 

And Miss Waters has always a thirst. 



53 FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Miss Knight is now changed into Day, 

Miss Day wants to marry a Knight, 
Miss Prudence has just run away, 

And Miss Steady assisted her flight. 
But success to the fair, — one and all, — 

No misapprehensions be making ; 
Though wrong the dear sex to mis- call, 

There's no harm, I should hope, in mis-taking ! 



"I DON'T OAKE." 
Old " Don't Care " is a murderer foul, 

Yes, a murderer foul is he ; 
He beareth a halter in his hand, 

And his staff is the gallows-tree ; 
And slyly he follows his victim on, 

Through high degree and low, 
And strangles him there when least aware, 

And striketh the fatal blow, — 
Hanging his victim high in the air, 

A villain strong is old " Don't Care ! " 

He looks on the babe at its mother's breast, 

And blighteth that blossom fair ; 
For its young buds wither, and fade, and die, 

'Neath the gaze of old " Don't Care ! " 
And in place of these there springeth up 

Full many a poisonous weed, 
And their tendrils coil around the victim's heart,- 

A rank and loathsome breed : 
Blighting the spirit young and fair ; 

A villain in truth is old "Don't Care !" 

He meeteth bold manhood on his way, 

And wrestleth with him there ; 
He falls a sure and an easy prey 

To the strength of old " Don't Care : " 
Then he plants his foot on the victim's breast, 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 58 

And shoutetli with, demon joy, 
And treadeth the life from his panting heart, 
. And exulteth to destroy,— 
Crushing bold manhood everywhere ; 
A villain indeed is old " Don't Care I" 



SIGNS AND OMENS. 

An old gentleman, whose style was Germanized, was asked 
what he thought of signs and omens. 

" Veil, I don't dinks mooch of dem dings, und I don't pelieve 
averydings ; but I dells you somedimes dere is somedings ash 
dose dings. Now de oder night I sit and reads mine newspaper, 
und my frau she speak und say, — 

" ' Fritz, de dog ish howling ! ' 

" Veil, I don' dinks mooch of dem dings, und I goes on und 
reads mine paper, und mine frau she say, — 

" ' Fritz, dere is somedings pad is happen, — der dog ish howl- 
ing!' 

" Und den I gets hop mit mineself und look out troo de wines 
on de porch, und de moon was shinin', und mine leetle dog he 
shoomp right up and down like averydings, und he park at de 
moon, dat was shine so bright as never vas. Und ash I hauled 
mine het in de winder, de old voman she say, — 

'" Mind, Fritz, I dells you dere ish some pad ish happen. 
Be dog ish howling ! ' 

" Veil, I goes to pet, und I shleeps, und all night long ven I 
vakes up dere vas dat dog howling outside, und ven I dream I 
hear dat howling vorsher ash never. Und in de morning I kits 
up und kits mine breakfast, und mine frau she looks at me und 
say, werry solemn, — 

" • Fritz, dere is somedings pad ish happen. De dog vas 
howl all night.' 

" Und shoost den de newspaper came in, und I opens him 
und by shings, vot you dinks ! dere vas a man died in Philadel- 
phia !" 






64 prescott's drawing-room recitations 



SEATING. 

What a bustle, what a shout ! 
Every village boy is out 

On the ice : 
Some are skating to and fro, 
Some are marking in the snow 

Queer device. 

Here and there a rosy girl 
Is waiting for a whirl 

As they pass ; 
For of falling there's no fear, 
Since the ice is smooth and clear, — 

Smooth as glass. 

There is handsome little Ned, 
With his sister on his sled, 

Skating by ; 
While Joe and Billy Brace 
Both are striving in a race : 

How they fly I 

Nimble Billy Brace will beat : 
But the ice is such a cheat. 

He is down — 
In the water to his chin ; 
Can the little fellow swim? 

Will he drown ? 

No ! the boys have fished him out, 
With many a noisy shout, 

And they say : 
" Simple Billy, have a care 
How you venture out too far 

In the bay. " 



trescott's drawing -room recitations. 55 

But the distant village chime 
Of bells is striking nine, 

And they all 
Hasten home, with noisy shout, 
Running nimbly on the route, 

Great and small. 

May I never grow so old, 
And have sympathies so cold 

As to hate 
The bustle and the noise 
Made by the village boys, 

When they skate ! 



BAKEPUL INFLUENCE OP SKEPTICISM. 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

O ! lives there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse, 

One hopeless, dark idolater of chance, 

Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined, 

The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind ; 

Who, mouldering earthward, reft of every trust, 

In joyless union wedded to the dust, 

Could all his parting energy dismiss, 

And call the barren world sufficient bliss ? 

There live, alas ! of heaven-directed mien, 
Of cultured soul, and sapient eye serene, 
Who hail'd thee, man ! the pilgrim of a day, 
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay ! 
Frail as the leaf in autumn's yellow bower, 
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower 1 
A friendless slave, a child without a sire, 
Whose mortal life, and momentary fire, 
Lights to the grave his chance-created form, 
As ocean wrecks illuminate the storm ; 
And when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er, 
To night and silence sink for evermore 1 



66 prescott's drawing -room recitations. 

Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, 

Lights of the world, arid demi-gods of fame? 

Is this your triumph — this your proud applause, 

Children of truth and champions of her cause ? 

For this hath Science searched on weary wing, 

By shore and sea, each mute and living thing ? 

Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep, 

To worlds unknown, and isles beyond the deep ? 

Or round the cope her living chariot driven, 

And wheeled in triumph through the signs of heaven 1 

star-eyed Science ! hast thou wandered there, 
To waft us home the message of despair ? 
Then bind the palm thy sage's brow to suit, 

Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling fruit ! 

Ah me ! the laureled wreath that murder rears, 

Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears, 

Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, 

As waves the night-shade round the skeptic's head ; 

What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain? 

1 smile on death, if heavenward hope remain ! 

But, if the warring winds of nature's strife 

Be all the faithless charter of my life, 

If chance awaked, inexorable power ! 

This frail and feverish being of an hour, 

Doomed o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep, 

Swift as the tempest travels on the deep, 

To know delight but by her parting smile, 

And toil, and weep, and wish a little while ;— 

Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain 

This troubled pulse and visionary brain ! 

Fade, ye wild-flowers, memorials of my doom ! 

And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb ! 

Truth, ever lovely, since the world began, 

The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man, 

How can thy words from balmy slumbers start 

Reposing virtue, pillowed on the heart ! 



frescott's drawing-room recitations. 57 

Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled, 
And that were true which nature never told, 
Let wisdom smile not on her conquered field ; 
No rapture dawns, no pleasure is revealed ! 
O ! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate, 
The doom that bars us from a better fate ; 
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin, 
Weep to record, and blush to give it in ! 



THE TATE OP CHAKLOTTE COEDAY. 

CLARE S. M'KINLEY. 

The sunny land of France with streams of noblest blood was 

dyed, 
Nor could a monarch's royal veins suffice the insatiate tide ; 
And youth and beauty knelt in vain, and mercy ceased to shine, 
And Nature's holiest ties were loosed beneath the guillotine. 

Wild war and rapine, hate and blood, and terror ruled supreme, 
Till all who loved its vine-clad vales had ceased of peace to 

dream ; 
But there was one whose lover's blood wrote vengeance in her 

soul, 
Whom zeal for France and blighted hopes had bound in fast 

control. 

Dark " Discord's demon," fierce Marat, his country's fellest foe, 
Belzance's executioner, the fount of war and w r oe ; 
Demon alike in mind and face, he dreamt not of his fall, 
Yet him the noble maiden doomed to vengeance and to Gaul. 
***** 

O ! had an artist seen them there as face to face they stand ; 
The noblest and the meanest mind in all that bleeding land ; 
The loveliest and most hideous forms that pencil could portray — 
A picture might on canvas live that would not pass away. 



58 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

"Point out the foes of France/' he said, "and ere to-morrow 
shine, 

The blood, now warm within their veins, shall stain the guillo- 
tine." 

"The guillotine I" the maid exclaimed, the* steel a moment 
gleams, 

A moment more 'tis in his heart ; adieu to all his dreams ! 
***** 

Before her judges Charlotte stands, undaunted, undismayed, 
While eyes that never wept are wet with pity for the maid, 
Unstained as beautiful she stands before the judgment seat, 
Resigned to fate, her heart is calm while others wildly beat ! 

Alas ! too sure her doom is read in those stern faces, while 
Fear from her looks affrighted fled, where shone Minerva's 

smile ; 
Hope she had none, or, if perchance she had, that hope was 

gone, 
Yet in its stead 'twas not despair but brightest triumph shone ! 

" What was the cause ? " " His crimes," she said, her bleeding 

country's foe, 
Inspir'd her hand, impell'd the steel, and laid the tyrant low ; 
Though well she knew her blood would flow for his she caused 

to bleed, 
Yet what was death ? — The crowning wreath that grac'd the 

noble deed ! 

Her doom is pass'd, a lovely smile dawns slowly o'er her face, 

And adds another beauty to her calm majestic grace ; 

She does not weep, she does not shrink, her features are not 

pale, 
The firmness that inspired her hand forbids her heart to fail I 

***** 

'Tis morn ; before the Tuileries the dawn is breaking gray, 
And thousands through the busy streets in haste pursue their . 
way ; 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 59 

What means the bustle and the throng, the scene is nothing 

new — 
A fair young lady, doom'd to die, each day the same they view. 

Before that home of bygone kings a gloomy scaffold stands, 
Uprear'd in Freedom's injured name to manacle her hands ; 
Some crowd to worship, some insult, the martyr in her doom, 
Bat over friends and foes a cloud is cast of sombre gloom. 

She stands upon the fatal spot angelically fair, 
The roses of Tier cheek concealed beneath her flowing hair ; 
" Greater than Brutus,'' she displays no sign of fear or dread, 
But in a moment will be still and silent with the dead. 

Her neck is bared, the fatal knife descends, and all is o'er, 
The martyr'd heroine of France — of freedom dreams no more ; 
The insults of the wretched throng she hears no longer now, 
But Death, man's universal friend, sits on her pallid brow ! 

In life, fear never blanched her cheek ; but now 'tis calm and 

pale, 
Love and her country asked revenge, and both her fate bewail ; 
She fell, more glorious in her fall than chief or crowned queen, 
A martyr in a noble cause, without a fault to screen ! 



WHO WILL TAKE OAEE OF MT BABY? 

MRS. MULOCK-CRAIK. 

My little baby is buried to-day, 
Gone — in the depths of the churchyard clay, 
Up in the sky so dim and gray, — 
Who will take care of my baby? 

Who will kiss her? her waxen feet, 
That have never walked, and her small hands sweet, 
Where I left a white lily, as was meet — 
Who, who will kiss my baby? 



60 prescott's drawing-room recitations 

Who will teach her ? her wings to fly, 
Her tiny limbs their new work to ply, 
Her soft, dumb lips to sing gloriously — 
Oh ! who will teach my baby ? 

I have a mother who long ago died — 
We speak of her now with our tears all dried ; 
She may know my pretty one, come to her side, 
And be glad to see my baby. 

Christ, born of a woman, hear, oh, hear ! 

Thine angels are far off — she seems near, 

Give Thou my child to my mother dear, 

And I'll weep no more for my baby. 

Surely, in heaven, Thy saints so blest 
Keep a mother's heart in a mother's breast ; 
Give her my lamb, and I shall rest, 
If my mother takes care of my baby. 



SONG OF THE FUEBELOWS. 

MARY C. WEBSTER. 

Work ! work ! work ! 

Vanity, folly, and sin ; 
Work ! work ! work ! 

Stitching these fantasies in, 
And 'tis oh ! to be a slave, 

And with the giddy throng, 
With never a thought of a soul to save, 

Or of life, an Eternity long 1 

Work ! work ! work ! 

For fashion that never flags ; 
But what are its wages, when human souls 

Are covered with filthy rags ? 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 61 

Or, naked, they stand in His sight, 

That pierceth the hearts of all, 
With nothing to thank, for their pitiful blank, 

Save folly's merciless thrall ? 

Click ! click ! click ! 

The tireless machine runs on : 
Click ! click ! click ! 

Till mountains of frilling are done. 
Band, and puffing, and frill ; 

Frill, and sashing, and band ; 
Bows, and flouncing, and furbelows still 

Crowding the brain and the hand. 

Oh ! women, with brothers dear ! 

Oh ! women, with husbands and sons I 
'Tis not alone those trappings you wear, 

Ye gay and thoughtless ones ; — 
While stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

Too hurried for needle to stop ; 
Is sown in your hearts, while sewing your gowns, 

The seeds of a bitter crop. 
Of selfishness, folly, and pride ; 

Bankruptcy, ruin, and crime, — 
(Each to the other so closely allied !) 

Harvest unfailingly gathered in time ; 
While work ! work ! work ! 

With never a moment to spend ; 
Except as you go through frivolity's show, 

And come to mortality's end. 



TKTJTH AND HONOK. 

If wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame, 
There is that in the doing brings honor or shame ; 
There is more in the running than winning the race — 
This marks thee as worthy, that brands thee as base. 



62 prebcott's drawing-room recitations. 

Oh, then, be a man, and whatever betide, 

Keep truth thy companion and honor thy guide. 

If a king, be thy kingship right royally shown, 
And trust to thy subjects to shelter thy throne ; 
Rely not on weapons or armies of might, 
But on that which endureth — laws loving and right. 
Though a king, be a man, and, whatever betide, 
Keep truth thy companion and honor thy guide. 

If a prince, or a noble, depend not on blood — 

The heart truly noble is that which is good ; 

If the stain of dishonor encrimson thy brow, 

Thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at thy plough. 
Be noble, as man, and, whatever betide, 
Keep truth thy companion, and honor thy guide. 

If a Jover, be constant, confiding, and kind, 

For doubting is death to the sensitive mind ; 

Love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy, 

Who soweth in faith expects harvests of joy. 
In loving, be man, and, whatever betide, 
Keep truth thy companion, and honor thy guide. 

If a parent, be firm, yet forgivingly true ; 

If a child, honor him to whom honor is due ; 

If rich, or if poor, or whate'er thou may'st be, 

Remember the truthful alone are the free. 
Be ever a man, and, whatever betide, 
Keep truth thy companion, and honor thy guide. 

Then, though sickness may come, and misfortunes may fall. 

The trust in thy bosom surviveth them all ; 

Truth — Honor — Love — Friendship no tempest can pale, 

They are flowers breathing balm in adversity's gale. 
Oh, the manlike is godlike, and so shall betide, 
While truth's thy companion, and honor thy guide. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 68 



THE LADY OF THE EAEL. 

I saw her in the festive halls, in scenes of pride and glee, 
'Mongst many beautiful and fair, but none so fair as she ; 
Her's was the most attractive form that mingled in the scene, 
And all who saw her said she moved a goddess and a queen. 

The diamond blazed in her dark hair and bound her polished 

brow, 
And precious gems were clasped around her swan-like neck of 

snow ; 
And Indian looms had lent their stores to form her sumptuous 

dress, 
And art with nature joined to grace her passing loveliness. 

I looked upon her and I said, who is so blessed as she? 
A creature she all light and life, all beauty and all glee ; 
Sure, sweet content blooms on her cheek and on her brow of 

pearl 
And she was young and innocent, the Lady of the Earl. 

But as I looked more carefully, I saw that radiant smile 
Was but assumed in mockery, the unthinking to beguile. 
Thus have I seen a summer rose in all its beauty bloom, 
When it has shed its sweetness o'er a cold and lonely tomb. 

She struck the harp, and when they praised her skill she 

turned aside, 
A rebel tear of conscious woe and memory to hide ; 
But when she raised her head she looked so lovely, so serene, 
To gaze in her proud eyes you'd think a tear had seldom been. 

The humblest maid in rural life can boast a happier fate 
Than she, the beautiful and good, in all her rank and state ; 
For she was sacrificed, alas ! to cold and selfish pride, 
When 'her young lips had breathed the- vow to be a soldier's 
bride. 



- 



64 prescott ? s drawing room recitations. 

Of late I viewed her move along, the idol of the crowd ; 

A few short months elapsed, and then, I kissed her in her 

shroud ! 
And o'er her splendid monument I saw the hatchment wave, 
But there was one proud heart which did more honor to her 

grave. 

A warrior dropped his plumed head upon her place of rest, 
And with his feverish lips the name of Ephilinda pressed ; 
Then breathed a prayer, and checked the groan of parting 

pain, 
And as he left the tomb he said, " Yet we shall meet again." 



POUND DEAD. 

ALBERT LEIGHTON. 

Found dead ! dead and alone ! 

There was nobody near, nobody near 
When the outcast died on his pillow of stone I 

No mother, no brother, no sister dear. 
Not a friendly voice to soothe or cheer, 
Not a watching eye or a pitying tear ! 
Oh, the city slept when he died alone, 
In the roofless street, on a pillow of stone ! 

Many a weary day went by, 

While wretched and worn he begged for bread 
Tired of life and longing to lie 

Peacefully down with the silent dead. 
Hunger and cold, and scorn and pain 
Had wasted his form and seared his brain, 
Till at last on a bed of frozen ground, 
With a pillow of stone, was the outcast found. 

Found dead ! dead and alone ! 

On a pillow of snow in the roofless street ; 
Nobody heard his last faint moan, 

Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat. 



PEESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 65 

No mourner lingered witli tears or sighs, 
But the stars looked down with pitying eyes, 
And the chill winds passed with a wailing sound 
O'er the lowly spot where his form was found. 

Found dead ! yet not alone ! 

There was somebody near, somebody near, 
To claim the wanderer as his own, 

And find a home for the homeless here. 
One, when every human door 
Is closed to his children scorned and poor, 
Who opens the heavenly portal wide, 
Ah ! God was there when the outcast died X 



WHAT WOULD THE HAEVEST BE ? 

If all the boys, as they grow up, 
Should never touch the poison cup, 
But lift the temperance banner high, 
Proclaiming peace and liberty, 
What would the harvest be ? 

If all these boys should now declare 
They will not touch the base cigar, 
Nor use tobacco anywhere, 
Nor fight, nor cheat, nor lie, nor swear, 
What would the harvest be ? 

If every boy would learn to pray, 
And read the Bible every day, 
Would give his heart to Jesus now, 
And every day before him bow, 
What w r ould the harvest be ? 

If up to manhood they should grow, 
And on from strength to strength should go, 
And each his mission to fulfill, 
Would try to do God's every will, 
What would the harvest be ? 



66 frescott's drawing-room recitations. 

If with the cares of earth oppressed. 
They feel the need of help and rest, 
To Christ, the rock of help would fly, 
And in his love would live and die, 
What would the harvest be ? 

O, glorious harvest gathered in, 
And golden sheaves all saved from sin ! 
While seraphs sing, they come ! they come 1 
And angels shout the harvest home ! 



A BALLAD OP NAMES, 

AUSTIN DOBSON. 

There are who sing Elaine the bright, 

There are who, in ' ' an empty day," 
Of Alix and Yolande will write 

And add thereto (perchance) le Fay ; 

Some shepherding with Philiis stray. 
And some with Greek Autonoe ; 

I care not who may say me nay, 
But Rose is still the name for me I 

With Dickens' Nell some take their flight. 

Some Ethel's slave — with Thackeray ; 
Of Bulwer's Blanche some own the might, 

And some Sir Walter's Di obey ; 

Some Wordsworth's Lucy leads away. 
Some Christabel (of S. T. C.) : 

And some with Herreik's Julia play, 
But Rose is still the name for me ! 

In " Celia's arbor " some delight, 

Some with Olivia "make their hay ; " 

For some, not Sarah-Jane can fright, 
Nor Ann Matilda strike dismay ; 






JTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 67 

To some Susannah's charms convey 
" The chaste and unexpressive she ;" 

Some Hetty, Letty, Tetty sway, 
But Rose is still the name for me J 

envoi (aux autres). 
Maids, by all names a maiden may 

Allure the unimpressive " He : " 
I murmur not. I simply say — 

''But Rose is still the name for me J " 



POOK MAKY'S STOBY. 

Our cottage was in the green lane, 
A mile and a field from the town ; 

How happy the days we lived there ! 
How far, far away they have flown I 

Then father and mother were there, 

So tenderly caring for me ; 
And I was a gay little child, 

As happy as happy could be. 

My father he worked at the mill, 
And steadily wrought through the day ; 

And all that we needed he earned, 
As week after week passed away. 

Alas ! though, he joined the new club 
That met at " The Castle and Man," 

And then, as I know but too well, 
Our trouble and sorrow began. 

At first his pay -moneys were sent, 
And so he was kept from the " inn M j 

Anon, though, with others he went, 
And then he was led into sin. 



88 FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Poor mother ! she grieved very much, 
She feared it would bring us to woe ; 
• And often she wept at the thought, 

And often she told father so. 

Next year the dear cottage was sold, 
And father discharged from the mill, 

And mother worked hard in the fields, 
Although she was worn out and ill. 

Till soon she was thrown on her bed — 
Thin, pale, and scarce able to speak : 

And father drank all he could get, 
And earned nothing week after week. 

And slowly dear mother grew worse, 
And people all feared she would die ; 

Pray do not be cross at my tears, 
At the thought of dear mother I cry. 

And once she held poor father's hand, 
And told him she felt she should die, 
And begged him to give up the drink, 
" To think of poor Mary, and try/' 

And father was sorry, and wept, 

And told mother dear that he would «• 

And truly I think that he tried ; 
But oh ! it is hard to be good. 

The evil was stronger than he, 

And though he tried hard, as I think, 

He drew not his strength from the Strong, 
So soon fell again to the drink. 

One night, when my father was out, 
Dear mother from slumber awoke ; 

She breathed a soft prayer on my cheek, 
And that was the last that she spoke. 






FRKSCOTT'8 DltAWIKQ-ROOM HECITATIO^S. 

Poor mother ! she went to her rest, 
From sorrow, and trouble, and pain — 

Oh, what would I give could I see 
The face of dear mother again ! 

That night, when my father came home, 
And saw that poor mother was dead, 

He threw himself down by the couch, 
And wept as though reason had fled. 

Then, raving, he sprang to his feet, 
And wildly kissed mother and me, 

And flew, there and then, to an end 
As fearful as fearful can be. 

And I am a poor orphan child — 

No father or mother to love ; 
Oh ! what would my sorrow be, 

Not hoping to see them above 



THE OLD MOTHER'S STORY. 

TENNYSOX. 

I came into court to the judge and the lawyers. I told them 
my tale, 

God's own truth — but they kill'd him> they kill'd him for rob- 
bing the mail. 

They hang'd him in chains for a show — we had always borne a 
good name — 

To be hang'd for a thief — and then put away — isn't that enough 
shame ? 

Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! but they set him so high 
That ail the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by. 
God '11 pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the 

air, 
But not the black heart of the lawyer who killed him and 

hanged him there. 



70 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS 

And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him. my last good- 
bye ; 

They had fasten'd the door of his cell. " mother ! '* I heard 
him cry. 

I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to 
say, 

And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away. 

Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was 

dead, 
They seized me and shut me up — they fastened me down on 

my bed. 
" Mother, mother ! " — he call'd in the dark to me year after 

year — 
They beat me for that, they beat me — you know that I couldn't 

but hear : 
And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still 
They let me abroad again — but the creatures had worked their 

will. 

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left — 
I stole them all from the lawyers — and you, will you call it a 

theft ? 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that had 

laughed and had cried — 
Theirs ? no ! they are mine— not theirs — they had moved in 

my side. 

Do you think I was scared by the bones ? I kiss'd 'em, I buried 

'em all — 
I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night by the churchyard wall. 
My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment 'ill 

sound, 
But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground 

They would scratch him up — they would hang him again on 

the cursed tree. 
Sin ? O yes — we are sinners, I know — let all that be, 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 71 

And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good will toward men, 
' ' Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord " — let me hear it 

again ; 
" Full of compassion and mercy— long-suffering." Yes, O yes ! 
For the lawyer is born but to murder— the Saviour lives but to 

bless. 
Hell never put on the black cap except for the worst of the 

worst, 
And the first may be last — I have heard it in church — and the 

last may be first. 
Suffering — O long-suffering — yes, as the Lord must know. 
Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and 

the snow. 



"NO MOEE SEA." 

Aye, painters come to paint it ; and writers to put in a book, 
How grand in storm, and fair in calm, a mimic sea can look. 

I've wondered to hear them talking, how to mimic in music or 

song, 
The voice that thrills the brooding air with its thunder low 

and long, 

Since never aught but itself, T wot, could sound like its angry 

roar, 
When its breakers rise to the east wind's call, to crash on the 

angry shore. 

But rough or smooth, in the shade or shine, the face of the 

mighty main 
Can speak of nothing else to me but memory, fear or pain. 

Father and husband, and bold, bright boy, it has taken them 

one by one ; 
I shall lie in the churchyard, there, when my weary days are 

done. 






72 prescott's drawing -room recitations. 

God never sent me a maiden bairn, to stay by me to the last, 
So I sit by the restless tides alone, by the grave of all my past. 

By the waves so strong and pitiless, that have drowned life's 

joys for me, 
And think of the land where all shall meet, the land where is 

no more sea. 

Yet I cannot rest in meadow or fell, or the quiet inland lanes, 
Where the great trees spread their rustling arms over the 
smiling plains. 

I can't draw breath in the country, all shadowed, and green, 

and dumb ; 
The want of the sea is at my heart ; I hear it calling, Come ! 

I hearken, and rise, and follow ; perhaps my men down there, 
Where the bright shells gleam and the fishes dart 'mid sea- 
weeds' tangles fair, 

Will find me best, if still on earth, when the angel's trump is 

blown, 
On the sand reach, or the tall cliff's side, ere we pass to the 

great white throne. 

So Summer and Winter, all alone, by the breaker's lip I wait, 
Till I see the red light flush the clouds, as He opens the golden 
gate. 

And though at the sound of the rising waves, I ofttimes tremble 

and weep, 
When the air is void of their glorious voice, I can neither rest 

nor sleep. 

And strangest of all the promises writ in the Book to me, 
Is, how, on the shores of Paradise, " there shall be no more 
sea. " 






frescott's drawing-room recitations. 73 

A WOMAN SCOEUED, 

MOSENTHAIi. 

Bianco, {solus). I know that I am nothing to you, and therein 
lies my anguish ! When we were friends together {softly) you 
held my life as children hold a butterfly, but close your hand 
and I was crushed ! Hate's metamorphoses has made me now 
a hawk that tears out hearts ! x\nd yet, in vain I wish you 
evil — my will relaxes when my revenge, like an armed bravo, 
waits at my call. Froilo ! I have led you into the snare. I 
might let the missile fall, but I must intervene though it on me 
descends. Oh ! cut the Gordian knot by slaying me ! I love 
you — at my fury's height, I love you ! (Vernier repulses her 
in scorn) Give me a hope— I will repent ! {holds her hands out 
to crucifix) I swear, I will undo my past ! From round your 
neck I've plucked the headsman's cord — oh ! I will wed you 
with that as my bridal necklace — then let me die ! let me die 
your wife, if I may not so live ! And thus I love you, Froilo ! 
Alas ! my whole life is a falsehood — with one only truth, and 
that my love for you ! {gravely and slouly) Do you fear the 
Medici is your rival ? At a word from you, that fear shall dis- 
appear S Francesco is a phantom — but too well I know how 
near the grave's brink he now stands, {meaningly) Who knows 
how soon Heaven may remove him from the earth ? I mean 
but good to you. But you would go to her ! You would be 
near her — save her ? Vain be your hope ! Your wit will fail 
against the merchant prince's cunning ! Orsini's misery is the 
Medici's triumph ! Wed Isabella to Bracciano and her life 
will be an odious doom ! Nay, you cannot leave this palace, 
guarded so truly. Unless I spare your life, it is now ended ! 
Froilo Vernier, must I add a bribe ? Would you dwell in such 
a home as this ? the diadem, the purple and the scepter wear? 
On my throne, you — you shall sit — oh, at your feet I'll 
kneel 

Ha ! my offer's spurned ! Reject her, and she shall not 
perish I I will be to you what no loving- wife to man bus ever 



74 PBESCOTT S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

been — witli caresses I will deluge you such as no wife can 
mate ! Oh, let me die with thee ! I will — and follow you 
through all eternity I The spite of Medici will set me on the 
way ! Stay ! (to R. ) In vain I call ! His curse fulfills itself. 
(to l., attempts to pray) Not here is peace for me ! Oh, when 
the man beloved spurns that woman's heart — it is an agony 
that outbids death ! 



EOOM, GENTLE ELOWEKS. 

N. P. WILLIS. 

Room, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to Heaven ! 
Ye looked not for her yet with your soft eyes, 

watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! 
But lo ! while you delay to let her forth, 
Angels beyond stay for her ! One long kiss 
From lips all pale with agony, and tears, 
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life 
Held as a welcome to her. Weep, mother ! 
But not that from this cup of bitterness 

A cherub of the sky has turned away. 

One look upon her face ere she depart ! 
My daughter, it is soon to let thee go ! 
My daughter, with thy birth has gushed a spring 

1 knew not of, filling my heart with tears, 
And turning with strange tenderness to thee ! 
A love — O God, it seems so — which must flow 
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt Heaven and me, 
Henceforward, be a sweet and yearning chain 
Drawing me after thee ! And so farewell ! 
'Tis a harsh world in which affection knows 
No place to treasure up its loved and lost 

But the lone grave. Thou so late wast sleeping 
Warm in the close folds of a mother's heart, 



prescott's drawing-room: recitations 75 

Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving 

But it was sent thee with some tender thought — 

How can I leave thee here ? Alas, for man 1 

The herb in its humility may fall, 

And waste into the bright and genial air, 

While we by hands that ministered in life 

Nothing but love to us, are thrust away, 

The earth thrown in upon our just cold bosoms, 

And the warm sunshine trodden out for ever ! 



Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
A bank where I have lain in Summer hours, 
And thought how little it would seem like death 
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook 
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
That lead us to thy bed, would still trip on, 
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone. 
The birds are never silent that build here, 
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters ; 
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers ; 
And, far below, seen under arching leaves, 
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, 
Pointing the living after thee. And this 
Seems like a comfort, and, replacing now 
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
To whisper the same peace to her who lies 
Robbed of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work 
Of many a dark hour and of many a prayer, 
To bring the heart back from an infant gone ! 
Hope must give o'er and busy fancy blot 
Its images from all the silent rooms, 
And every sight and sound familiar to her 
Undo its sweetest link ; and so, at last, 
The fountain that, once loosed, must flow for ever, 
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 
Steals to her pallid lips again and Spring 
Wakens V> buds above thee, we will come, 



TRE^COTTS DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

And standing by the music-haunted grave, 
Look on each other cheerfully, and say, 
" A child that we have loved is gone to heaven. 
And by this gate of flowers she passed away 1 " 



EETIEEMENT. 

JAMES BEATTIE. 

When in the crimson cloud at even 

The lingering light decays, 
And Hesper on the front of Heaven 

His glittering gems displays ; 
Deep in the silent vale, unseen, 

Beside a lulling stream, 
A pensive youth, of placid mien, 

Indulg'd this tender theme : 

"Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur pil'd, 

High o'er the glimmering dale . 
Ye woods, along whose windings wild 

Murmurs the solemn gale : 
Where Melancholy strays forlorn, 

And Woe retires to weep, 
What time the w r an moon's yellow horn 

Gleams on the western deep : 

" To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms 

Ne'er drew Ambition's e^e, 
From a tumultuous world's alarms 

To your retreats I fly. 
Deep in your most sequester'd bower 

Let me at last recline, 
Where Solitude, mild, modest Power, 

Leans on her ivied shrine. 



PBESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 77 

" How shall I woo thee, matchless Fair? 

Thy heavenly smile how win ? 
Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, 

And stills the storm within ? 
O, wilt thou to thy favorite grove 

Thine ardent votary bring, 
And bless his, hours, and bid them move 

Serene, on silent wing ? 



"Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind 

With dreams of former days, 
When in the lap of Peace reeling, 

He fram'd his infant lays : 
When Fancy rov'd at large, nor Care 

Nor cold distrust alarm'd, 
Nor Envy with malignant glare 

His simple youth had harm'd. 



" 'Twas then, Solitude ! to thee 

His early vows were paid, 
From heart sincere, and warm, and free, 

Devoted to the shade. 
Ah ! why did Fate his steps decoy 

In stormy paths to roam, 
Remote from all congenial joy ? — 

O, take the wanderer home ! 



" The shades, thy silence, now be mine. 

Thy charms my only theme ; 
My haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine 

Waves o'er the gloomy stream ; — 
Whence the scar'd owl on pinions gray 

Breaks from the rustling boughs, 
And down the lone vale sails away 

To more profound repose. 



78 prescott's drawing room recitations.. 

" O, while to thee the woodland pours 

Its wildly warbling song, 
And balmy, from the bank of flowers, 

The zephyr breathes along ; 
Let no rude, sound invade from far, 

No vagrant foot be nigh, 
No ray from Grandeur's gilded car 

Flash on the startled eye. 

" But if some pilgrim through the glade 

Thy hallow'd bowers explore, 
O guard from harm his hoary head, 

And listen to his lore ; 
For he of joys Divine shall tell, 

That wean from earthly woe, 
And triumph o'er the mighty spell 

That chains his heart below. 

" For me, no more the path invites 

Ambition loves to tread : 
No more I climb those toilsome heights, 

By guileful Hope misled : 
Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more 

To Mirth's enlivening strain ; 
For present pleasure soon is o'er, 

And all the past is vain." 



THE FAITHFUL DOG. 

MRS. SIGOURNEY. 

See ! how he strives to rescue from the flood 
The drowning child, who, venturous in his play, 
Plunged from the slippery footing. With what joy 
The brave deliverer feels those slender arms 
Convulsive twining round his brawny neck, 
And saves his master's boy ! 






prescott's drawing-room recitations. 79 

A zeal like this 
Hatli oft, amid St, Bernard's blinding snows, 
Tracked the faipt traveller, or unsealed the jaws 
Of the voracious avalanche, plucking thence 
The hapless victim. 

If thou hast a dog 
Of such a noble race, let him not lack 
Aught of the kind requital that delights 
His honest nature. When he comes at eve, 
Laying his ample head upon thy knee, 
And looking at thee with a glistening eye, 
Repulse him nor, but let him on the rug 
Sleep fast and warm, beside thy parlor fire. 
The lion-guard of all thou lovest is he, 
Yet bows his spirit at thy least command 
And crouches at thy feet. On his broad back 
He bears the youngest darling, and endures 
Long, with a wagging tail, the teasing sport 
Of each mischievous imp. Enough for him 
That they are thine.. 

"Tis but an olden theme 
To sing the faithful dog. The storied page 
Full oft has told his tried fidelity, 
In legend quaint ; yet if in this our world 
True friendship is a scarce and chary plant, 
It might be well to stoop and sow its seed 
Even in the humble bosom of a brute.. 
—Slight nutriment it needs,— the kindly tone, 
The sheltering roof, the fragments from the board, 
The frank caress, or treasured word of praise 
For deeds of loyalty. 

So rnayest thou win 
A willing servant, and an earnest friend, 
Faithful to death. 









80 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

THE BKIDE, 

MRS. SIGOURNEY. 

I came, but she was gone. 

In lier fair home, 
There lay her lute, just as she touched it last, 
At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups 
Filled with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat 
Lay the still open work-box, and that book 
Which last she read ; its pencilled margin marked 
By an ill-quoted passage — traced, perchance, 
With hand unconscious, while her lover spoke 
That dialect which brings forgetf ulness 
Of all beside. It was the cherished home 
Where, from her childhood, she had been the star 
Of hope and joy. % 

I came — and she was gone* 
Yet I had seen her from the altar led, 
With silvery veil but slightly swept aside, 
The fresh young rosebud deepening in her cheek, 
And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought 
Of one who gives a priceless gift away. 
And there was silence *mid the gathering throng : 
The strongest and the hard of heart did draw 
Their breath suppressed to see the mother's lips 
Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire 
Shrink as with sudden sorrow, when he gave 
His darling to an untried guardianship, 
And to a far off clime. 

Haply his thought 
Traversed the grass-grown prairies and the shore 
Of the cold lakes ; or those o'erhanging cliffs 
And pathless mountain-tops, that rose to bar 
Her long reared mansion from the anxious eye 
Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt 
How strong and beautiful is woman's love, 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 81 

That, taking in its hand its thornless joys, 
The tenderest melodies of tuneful years, 
Yea, and its own life also — lays them all, 
Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast 
Reserving naught, save that unspoken hope 
Which hath its root in God. 

Mock not with mirth 
A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones ; 
The licensed jester's lip, the dancer's heel — 
What do they here ? 

Joy, serious and sublime, 
Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer, 
Should swell the bosom when a maiden's hand, 
Filled with life's dewy flow'rets, girded on 
That harness, which the ministry of Death 
Alone unlooses, but whose fearful power 
May stamp the sentence of Eternity. 



THE TEUE AEISTOCRAT. 

STEWART. 

Who are the nobles of the earth, 

The true aristocrats, 
Who need not bow their heads to lords, 

Nor dofl to kings their hats ? 
Who are they but the men of toil, 

The mighty and the free, 
Whose hearts and hands subdue the earth, 

And compass all the sea ? 

Who are they but the men of toil 

Who cleave the forest down, 
And plant, amid the wilderness, 

The hamlet and the town. 



82 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING ROOM RECITATIONS, 

Who fight the battles, bear the scars, 
And give the world its crown 

Of name, and fame, and history, 
And pomp of old renown ? 

These claim no gaud of heraldry, 

And scorn the knightly rod ; 
Their coats of arms are noble deeds, 

Their peerage is from God ! 
They take not from ancestral graves 

The glory of their name, 
But win, as once their fathers won, 

The laurel wreath of fame. 



THE LOKD OF BUTBAGO, 

JOHN GISSON LOCKHART. 

"Your horse is faint, my King, my lord ! your gallant horse is 

sick, — 
His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is 

thick ; 
Mount, mount on mine, O, mount apace, I pray thee, mount and 

fly! 
Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace, — their trampling hoofs are 

nigh ! 

"My King, my King ! you're wounded sore, — the blood runs 

from your feet ; 
But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat ; 
Mount, Juan, for they gather fast ! — I hear their coming cry — 
Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy, — I'll save you though I 

die! 

" Stand, noble steed ! tins hour of need, — be gentle as a lamb ; 
I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth, — thy master dear 1 am, — 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 83 

Mount, Juan, mount ; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling, 
And plunge the rowels in his side. — My horse shall save my 
King! 

" Nay, never speak ; my sires, Lord King, received their land 

from yours, 
And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures ; 
If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead, 
How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray 

head? 

" Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain, 
And say there's one that ran away when our good lords were 

slain ! 
I leave Diego in your care, — you'll fill his father's place ; 
Strike, strike the spur, and never spare, — God's blessing on 

your Grace ! " 

So spake the brave Montanez, Butrago's lord was he ; 
And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee ; 
He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill, — 
He died, God wot ! but not before his sword had drunk its fill. 



THANKSGIVING. 

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 

Within a garret, cold and forlorn, 

A group is gathered, Thanksgiving morn. 

Father and mother, with children, three ; 
One but a babe on its mothers knee. 

Haggard and pale is the father's face, 
Where lingering sickness has left its trace ; 

While the careworn look, on the mother's brow, 
Tells of the sorrow upon her now. 



S4 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Hungry and faint, for want of food, 
With scanty clothing ; no coal nor wood ; 

A broken table ; a bare, pine floor- — 
What have they to be thankful for ? 

Thoughts like these to the parents come, 
While sitting here, in their cheerless home. 

The children nestled upon the bed — 

A fragment of carpet over them spread — 

Are blind to their parents' mute despair, 
And the little girl, with a pitying air, 

Says : " What do poor children do, I wonder, 
With no warm carpet to cuddle under ? 

No papa nor mamma to give 'em bread, 
An' tuck 'em up when they go to bed." 

Teardrops start from the father's eyes ; 
Prayers from the mother's lips arise — 
***** 

Footsteps fall on the creaking floor ; 
A knock is heard on the chamber door. 

A bluff " Good morning ! " their query brings, 
And, " Sambo, you rascal, fetch up the things ! 

While the 'Squire's darkey, with cheerful grin, 
Food and clothing brings quickly in. 

" Lord bless you, mum ! why, who'd a-knowed 
That folks lived up in this 'ere abode? 

'Taint fit fer a barn, 'n', ez I'm a sinner, 
I'll take you all to my house to dinner. 

I'll find you work, when you're strong, and well, 
And a better place than this 'ere, to dwell — " 



frescott's drawtxg-room recitations. 85 

And the 'Squire paused, while a tear arose 
And dropped, unseen, on his ruby nose, 

As the baby boy, with a happy look 
A rosy apple from Sambo took, 

And the children gathered, with eager eyes, 
'Round the platter of doughnuts and pumpkin pies ; 

While the grateful mother could only say, 
". Truly this is Thanksgiving Day I " 



THE CITY OP A THOUSAND TEMPTATIONS. 

SARDOU. 

There was in an American city two school-boy friends, who 
grew even closer in muturer life, and engaged in the same 
business. One day, my friend and partner spoke of extending 
our trade — a foreign branch was the means, and he came here 
to Paris. At first all went more than well. But, too soon, the 
books were reversed. He drew on me, and drew after I had 
had to caution him. He exhausted all legitimate excuses for 
his demands for money. And still I believed him. At last our 
business ruined, I had to say : Not only all your money, friend, 
has been sent to you, but all that I could call my own. His 
sister, had she married me, would have been fettered to a 
beggar. To my last letter, no response Some twenty fol- 
lowed, but not a line from him. Friends who passed through 
Paris called for news of him. His office occupied by other 
tenants ; his whereabouts unknown. My own anxiety was 
doubled by his sister's tears and her reproaches. Why had I 
let him go to the City of a Thousand Temptations ? Why had 
not I gone ? I embarked in a new enterprise — as agent for the 
prominent artistes. I could travel at their expense. So I came 
to Paris. Nor could I give all of my time to seeking traces of 
my friend. For his sister had no resources, since he had 



86 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

squandered them. Too poor was I to wed her — too poor was 
she to live without rny help. Under disguise, I made her ac- 
cept charity. I wrote : " Some hopes of finding your brother. 
The branch he established is doing fairly well." And I 
remitted to her a percentage of the supposed business profits. 
But I have my reward ; the lady so benefited is now my wife ! 
Her brother, allured by the charm of forbidden fruit, had been 
enticed by the hideous passion of gambling, and into that vor- 
tex of vice, his possessions, his sister's future, my fortune, 
had been all engulfed. Worse, these fishes, who like to bait 
their hooks with gentles, converted him, an honorable man, 
into a drunken, disgraceful scamp — the leader of their gang, 
at least such a leader as the police would seize in preference to 
the real master, who kept in the background. Though he had 
no taste for the wretched life of these convicts out-of-jaii, he 
was their idol — and that made the secret captain jealous. By 
all means he tried to cast down the image that he had himself 
erected ! But the gang worshipped the American. All the 
scoundrels of Paris remember to this day James Wharton ; 
out of all of them but one was capable of doing him evil. One 
night an unknown messenger placed this paper in the hands of 
the officers of justice, {shows paper from pocket-book) It be- 
trayed the means of entering the gambling den where my 
friend presided. That hour the place was entered. At the 
moment the door burst in, the bayonets of the gens d'armes at 
the windows, the summons to surrender, a pistol shot re- 
sounded, and as James Wharton fell dead at the murderer's 
feet, one of the gamblers cried : " Death to the traitor ! " 

Most horrible ! He who slew my friend was he who sold 
his brethren. It was months before I found this out. It may 
be years before I find him out. Till then I rest not easy. 
Once a gambler always a gambler. I explore in all the conti- 
nental cities' haunts of vice — where the dice rattle and the 
money clinks. Some day I shall meet this man, this cunning 
rogue who set my friend up to receive the blows, and who 
dethroned him cruelly. Thinking of him, I never see a gen- 
tleman, led astray by his youth and cynical advisers, but I try 
to warn them to avoid the gambler's fate. 



frescott's drawing-room recitations 87 



THE GEANDMOTHEE. 

VICTOR HUGO. 

Mother of our own dear mother, good old grandam, wake and 

smile ; 
Commonly your lips keep moving when you're sleeping all the 

while ; 
For between your prayer and slumber scarce the difference is 

known, 
But to-night you're like the image of Madonna cut in stone, 
With your lips without a motion, or a breath, a single one, 

Why more heavily than usual dost thou bend thy old gray 

brow ? 
What is it we've done to grieve thee that thou'lt not caress us 

now ? 
Grandam, see, the lamp is failing, and the fire burns fast 

away ; 
Speak to us, or fire and lamp-light will not any longer stay, 
And thy two poor little children, we shall die as well as they. 

Ah ! when thou slialt wake and find us near the lamp that's 

ceased to burn, 
Dead, and when thou speakest to us, deaf and silent in our 

turn ; 
Then how great will be thy sorrow, then thou'lt cry for us in 

vain, 
Call upon thy saint and patron for a long, long time, and fain ; 
And a long, long time embrace us, ere we come to life again ! 

Only feel how warm our hands are ; wake and place thy hands 
in ours ; 

Wake and sing us some old ballad of the wandering trouba- 
dours. 






88 frescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Tell us of those knights whom fairies used to help to love and 

fame ; 
Knights who brought, instead of posies, spoils and trophies to 

their dame, 
And whose war-cry in the battle was a lady's gentle name. 

• Tell us what's the sacred token wicked shapes and spirits to 

scare ! 
And of Lucifer, who was it saw him flying through the air ? 
What's the gem that's on the forehead of the King of Gnomes 

displayed ? 
Does Archbishop Turpinpsalter or Roland's enormous blade 
Daunt the great black King of Evil — say, which makes him 

most afraid ? 

Or thy large old Bible reach us, with its pictures bright and 

blue ; 
Heaven all gold, and saints a-kneeling, and the infant Jesus 

too, 
In the manger with the oxen ; and the kings, and soft and 

slow, 
O'er the middle of the pages, guide our fingers as we go, 
Reading some of that good Latin speaks to us from God, you 

know. 

Grandam, see, the light is failing — failing ; and upon the 

hearth, 
And around the blackened ingle, leaps the shadow in its mirth. 
Ha ! perhaps the spirits are comiDg ! Yes, they'll soon be at 

the door ; 
Wake, oh, wake ! and if your praying, dearest grandam, pray 

no more ; 
Sure, you do not wish to fright us, you who cheered us aye 

before ? 

But thine arms are colder, colder ! and thine eyes so closed are : 
'Twas but lately you did tell us of another world afar ; 



frescott's drawing-room recitations. 89 

And of heaven you were discoursing, and the grave where 

people lie — 
Told us life was short and fleeting, and of death — that all 

must die. 
What is death ? dear grandam, tell us what it is. — You don't 

reply ! 

Long time did those slender voices moan and murmur all 

alone ; 
Still the aged dame awaked not, though the golden morning 

shone. 
Soon was heard the solemn tolling of the solemn funeral bell ; 
Mournfully the air resounded ; and, as silent evening fell, 
One who passed that door half opened those two little ones 

espied, 
With the holy book before them, kneeling at the lone bedside. 



JEAN D'AEC. 

CLARE S. M'KIXLEY. 

'Twas in the days of chivalry, when steel-clad warriors swore 

To bear their ladies' favors amidst the battle's roar, 

To right the wrongs of injured maids, the lance in rest to lay, 

And nably fall in honor's cause or triumph in the fray. 

But not to-day a lance is couch'd, no waving plume is there, 

No war-horse sniffs the trumpet's breath, no banner woos the 

air ; 
No crowding chiefs the tilt-yard throng to quench the thirst of 

fame, 
Though chiefs are met, intent to leave their names eternal 

shame ! 

A still and solemn silence reign'd, deep darkness veiled the 

skies, 
And Nature, shuddering, shook to see the impious sacrifice I 
Full in the centre of the lists a dreadful pile is reared, 
Awaiting one whose noble soul death's terrors never feared, 






90 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Gaul's young Minerva, who had led her countrymen to fame, 
And foremost in the battle rent that conquered country's chain • 
Who, when the sun of fame had set that on its armies shone, 
Its broken ranks in order set, inspired and led them on ; 
The low-born maid that, clad in steel, restor'd a fallen king, 
Who taught the vanquished o'er their foes triumphal songs to 

sing ; 
Whose banner in the battle's front the badge of conquest 

stream'd, 
And built again a tottering throne, a forfeit crown redeemed ! 
But when her glorious deeds were done, Fate sent a darker day, 
The blaze of brightness faded in murkiest clouds away ; 
And France stood looking idly on, nor dared to strike a blow, 
Her guardian angel's life to save, but gave it to the foe ! 
Ungrateful France her savior's fate beheld with careless smile, 
While Superstition, hidimg hate and vengeance, fired the pile ! 

What holy horror of her crime is looked by yonder priest, 
Like that grim bird that hovers nigh, and scents the funeral 

feast ! 
Is this the maiden's triumph, won in battle's dreadful scenes, 
Whose banner so triumphant flew before thy walls, Orleans ! 

Hark to the trumpet's solemn sound ! Low roll the muffled 

drums # 

As slowly through the silent throng the sad procession comes ; 
Wrapp'd in the garments of the grave, the corslet laid aside, 
Still with Bellona's step she treads, through all her woes des- 
cried. 
As beautiful her features now as when inspired she spoke 
Those oracles that slumbering France to life and action woke : 
The majesty yet haunts her looks, that late so dreadful beam'd 
In war, when o'er her burnished arms the long rich tresse3 

stream'd, 
She gazes on the ghastly pile, tho' pale as marble stone ; 
'Tis not with fear, for from her lips escapes no sigh nor groan ; 
But she. her country's savior, thus to render up her breath — 
That was a pang far worse than all the bitterness of death ! 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 91 

Tis clone ; the blazing pile is fir'd, the flames have wrapped her 

round ; 
The owlet shrieked, and circling flew with dull, foreboding 

sound ; 
Fate shuddered at the ghastly sight, and sinil'd a ghastly smile ; 
And fame and honor spread their wings above the funeral pile. 
Bat, phoenix-like, her spirit rose from out the burning flame, 
More beautiful and bright by far than in her days of fame. 
Peace to her spirit ! Let us give her memory to renown, 
Nor on her faults or failings dwell, but draw the curtain down. 



HOW A WICKED NEVY GOT HIMSELF DTT0 THE WILL. 

J. T. FIELDS. 

It was a wicked nephew bold 

Who uprose in the night, 
And ground upon a huge grindstone 

His penknife, sharp and bright. 

And while the sparks were flying wild 

The cellar floor upon, 
Quoth he unto himself, " I will 

Dispatch my Uncle John ! 

4 His property is large, and, if 

He dies and leaves a will, 
His loving nephew (that's myself) 
Won't get a dollar bill. 

" I'll hie unto my uncle's bed, 

His chamber well I know, 
And there I'll find his pocketbook 

Safe under his ^pil-low. 



92 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING ROOM RECITATIONS. 

" With tins bright steel I'll slay him first 

Because that is the way 
They do such things, I understand, 

In Boucicault's new play." 

By this the anxious moon retired 

(For all the stars were in); 
"'Tis very dark, " the nephew cried, 

" But I can find my kin. 

" Come forth, my trusty weapon, now 1 " 

(Or words to that effect) 
He shouted to his little blade, 

Whose power he did suspect. 

Then out he starts. His uncle's door. 

Is thirteen doors from his ; 
He gains the latch, which upward flies 

And straight inside he is ! 

One pause upon the entry stair, 

And one upon the mat — 
How still the house at such an hour 

How mewl ess is the cat I 

" O, nephew, nephew be not rash ; 

Turn back, and then * turn in ;' 
Your uncle still is sound asleep, 

And you devoid of sin. 

" The gallows tree was never built 
For handsome lads like you — 

Get to your bed ! (as kind Macbeth 
Wished Ids young man to do)." 

He will not be advised — he stands 

Beside the sleeping form — 
The hail begins to beat outside 

A tattoo for the storm. 



FRESCOTT'S drawing-room recitations. 

" 'Tis not too late — repent, repent, 

And all may yet be well." 
" Repent yourself," the nephew sneers, 

And at it goes pell-mell. 

To right and left he carves his way, — 

At least thus did it seem ; 
And, after he had done the deed, 

Woke up from his bad dream. 

And swift to Uncle John he ran, 
When daylight climbed the hill, 

And told him all — and Uncle John 
Put nephew in his will. 



WHO SHALL JUDQE MAN. 

Who shall judge man from his manners ? 

Who shall know him by his dress ? 
Paupers may be fit for princes, 

Princes fit for something less, 
Crumpled shirt and dirty jacket 

May beclothe the golden ore 
Of the deepest thoughts and feeling — 

Satin vests can do no more 

There are streams of crystal nectar 

Ever flowing out of stone ; 
There are purple beds and golden, 

Hidden, crushed and overthrown. 
God, who counts by souls, not dresses, 

Loves and prospers you and me, 
While he values thrones the highest 

But as pebbles in the sea. 



94 FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Man upraised above his fellows 

Oft forgets his fellows then ; 
Masters — rulers — lords, remember 

That your meanest hinds are men ! 
Men of labor, men of feeling, 

Men of thought and men of fame, 
Claiming equal rights to sunshine 

In a man's ennobling 1 name. 

There are foam -embroidered oceans ; 

There are little wood-clad rills ; 
There are feeble inch-high saplings, 

There are cedars on the hill. 
God, who counts by souls, not stations, 

Loves and prospers you and me ; 
For to him all vain distinctions 

Are as pebbles in the sea. 

Toiling hands alone are builders 

Of a nation's wealth and fame, 
Titled laziness is pensioned, 

Fed and fattened on the same. 
By the sweat of other's foreheads, 

Living only to rejoice, 
While the poor man's outraged freedom 

Vainly lifts his feeble voice. 

Truth and justice are eternal, 

Born with loveliness and light, 
Secret wrongs shall never prosper 

While there is a sunny right. 
God, whose world-wide voice is singing 

Boundless love to you and me, 
Links oppression with its titles 

But as pebbles in the sea. 






prescott's drawing-room recitations 95 

DIEGE OF LOVELY EOSABELLE. 

SCOTT. 

O listen, listen, ladies gay I 

No haughty feat of arms I tell, 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay, 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle, 

" Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, 

And gentle ladye, deigu to stay ! 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

1 The blackening wave is edged with white, 

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly ; 
The fishes have heard the Water-Sprite, 
Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh. 

" Last night the gifted Seer did view 
A wet shroud swathed round a ladye gay ; 

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch : 
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ? " 

" 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 
But that my sire the wine will chide, 

If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle." — 

O'er Roslin all that dreary night, 

A wonderous blaze was seen to gleam ; 

'Twas broader than the watch- fire's light, 
And redder than the bright moonbeam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 

It rudied all the copse- wood glen ; 
'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 






98 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-BOOM RECITATIONS. 

Seem'd all on fire that cliapel proud, 
Where Koslin's chiefs uncofhn'd lie, 

Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

Seem'd all on fire within, around, 

Deep sacristy and altars pale ; 
Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 

Blazed battlement and pennet high, 
Blazed every rose- carved buttress fair — 

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high St. Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! 

And each St. Clair w r as buried there, 

With candle, with book, and with knell, 

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung, 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 



CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 

JAMES THOMSON. 

In lowly dale fast by a river's side, 

With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, 

A most- enchanting wizard did abide 

Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 

And there a season at ween June and May, 

Half prankt with spring, with summer, half imbrowned, 

A listless climate made, where sooth to say, 

No living wight could work, nor cared even for play. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 97 

Was nought around but images of rest ? 
Sleep-soothing groves and quiet lawns between ; 
And flowery beds that slumbrous influence shed, 
From poppies breathed, and beds of pleasant green. 
Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
Meantime, unnumbered glittering streamlets played, 
And hurl'd everywhere their waters sheen ; 
That as they bickered through the sunny glade, 
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 

Joined to the prattle of the purling rills 
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills, 
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale ; 
And now and then, sweet Philomel w r ould wail, 
Or stock doves plain amid the forest deep, 
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 

Full in the passage of the vale, above, 

A sable, silent, solemn forest stood, 

Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move* 

As idless fancied in her dreaming mood ; 

And up the hills on either side a wood 

Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro, 

Sent forth a sleepy horror thro 1 the blood ; 

And where this valley winded out, below, 

The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard to flow. 



DB0W1TED. 

EBEN E. REXFORD. 

How the reeds and rushes quiver 
On the low banks of the river, 
And the leaning willows shiver 
In a strange and deep affright. 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

And the water moans and murmurs 
As it eddies round tlie lilies, 
Like a human soul in sorrow, 
Over something hid from sight. 

How the shadows haunt the edges 
Of the river, whefa the sedges 
To the lilies whisper ever 

Of some strange and awful deed \ 
Bow the sunshine, timid, frightened, 
Dares not touch the spot it brightened 
Yesterday, among' the shadows 

Of the lily and the reed. 

What is that that floats arid shimmers 
Where the water gleams and glimmers, 
In and out among the rushes. 

Growing thick, and tall, and green ? 
Something yellow, long and shining \ 
Something wondrous fair and silken, 
Like a woman's golden tresses, 

With a broken flower between. 

What is that, so white and slender, 
Hidden, almost, by the splendor 
Of a great white water lily, 

Floating on the river there ? 
'Tis a hand stretched up toward Heavefi, 
As, when we would be forgiven, 
We reach out our hands, imploring, 

In an agony of prayer, 

Tremble, reeds, and moan and shiver, 
At your feet, in the still river, 
Lies a woman, done forever 
With life's mockery and woe. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations 99 

God alone can know the sorrow, 
All the bitterness and heartache. 
Ended in the moaning river 
Where the water lilies blow. 






CTJMNOE HALL 

W. J. MICKLE. 

The dews of summer night did fall : 
The moon, sweet Regent of the sky, 

Silver' d the walls of Gumnor Hall, 
And many an oak that grew thereby. 

Now nought was heard beneath the skies ; 

The sounds of busy life were still, 
Save an unhappy lady's sighs 

That issued from that lonely pile, 

" Leicester ! " she cried, " is this thy love 
That thou so oft hast sworn to me. 

To leave me in this lonely grove, 
Immured in shameful privity ? 

04 No more thou com'st with lover's speed 
Thy once-beloved bride to see ; 

But, be she alive, or be she dead, 

I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. 

" Not so the usage I received 

When happy in my father's hall ; 

No faithless husband then me grieved ; 
No chilling fears did me appal, 

" I rose up with the cheerful morn, 
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay : 

And like the bird that haunts the thorn, 
So merrily sung the live-long day. 



100 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

-l If that my beauty is but small, 
Among court ladies all despised ; 

Why didst tbou rend it from that hall 

Where, scornful Earl ! it well was prized ? 

" But, Leicester (or I much am wrong), 
Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows ; 

Rather, ambition's gilded crown 

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. 

" Then, Leicester, why, — again I plead, 
The injured surely may repine, — 

Why didst thou wed a country maid, 

When some fair princess might be thine ? 

" Why didst thou praise my humble charms, 
And 1 then leave them to decay ? 

Why didst thou win me to thy arms, 
Then leave to mourn the live-long day ? 

" The village maidens of the plain 

Salute me lowly as they go : 
Envious they mark my silken train, 

Nor think a countess can have woe. 

" How far less blest am I than them ! 

Daily to pine and waste with care, 
Like the poor plant, that, from its stem 

Divided, feels the chilling air. 

" My spirits flag ; my hopes decay ; 

Still that dread death-beil smites my ear: 
And many a boding seems to say 

Countess, prepare I thy end is near ! " 

Thus sore and sad the Lady grieved 
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear ; 

And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
And let fall many a bitter tear. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 101 

And ere the dawn of day appear'd, 

In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear, 
Full many a -piercing scream was heard, 

And many a cry of mortal fear. 

The deatli-bell thrice was heard to ring ; 

An aerial voice was heard to call ; 
And thrice the raven flapped its wing 

Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 

The mastiff howl'd at village door ; 

The oaks were shatter' d on the green ; 
Woe was the hour ! for never more • 

That hapless countess e'er was seen. 

And in that manor uow no more 

Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball ; 
For ever since that dreary hour 

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 

The village maids, with fearful glance. 

Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall, 
Nor ever lead the merry dance 

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 

Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd, 

And pensive wept the countess' fall, 
As wandering onwards they've espied 

The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 



THE DEOOPDTG LILY. 

JOHN GAY. 

'Twas when the seas were roaring 
With hollow blasts of wind ; 

A damsel lay deploring, 
All on a rock reclined. 






102 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Wide o'er the rolling billows, 

She cast a wistful look ; 
Her head was crowned with willows, 

That tremble o'er the brook. 



Twelve months are gone and over, 

And nine long tedious days, 
Why didst thou, venturous lover? 

Why didst thou trust the seas? 
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean, 

And let my lover rest. 
Ah ! What's thy troubled motion 

To that within my breast ? 

The merchant robbed of pleasure, 

Sees tempests in despair ; 
But what's the loss of treasure 

To losing of my dear ? 
Should you some coast be laid on, 

Where gold and diamonds grow, 
You'd find a richer maiden, 

But none that loves you so. 

How can they say that Nature 

Has nothing made in vain ? 
Why, then, beneath the water 

Should hideous rocks reowiin ? 
No eyes the rocks discover 

That lurk beneath the deep, 
To wreck the wandering lover, 

And leave the maid to weep. 

All melancholy lying, 

Thus waited she for her dear ; 
Repaid each blast with sighing, 

Each billow with a tear. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 103 

When o'er the white wave stooping, 

His floating corpse she spied ; 
Then like a lily drooping, 

She bowed her head and died. 



PETIT JEAN. 
At the battle of the Pyramids, July 21st, A. D. 1798. 

LILLIE E. BARR. 

Burning sands, and isles of palm, and the Mamelukes' fierce ar- 
ray, 

Under the solemn Pyramids, Napoleon saw that day-; 

" Comrades," he cried, " from those old heights, Fame watches 
the deeds you do, 

The eyes of forty centuries are fixed this day on you ! " 

They answered him with ringing shouts, they were eager for 

the fra} r , 
Napoleon held their central square, in front was bold Desaix ; 
They gave one glance to the Pyramids, one glance to the rich 

Cairo, 
And then they poured a rain of fire upon their charging foe. 

Only a little drummer boy, from the column of Dufarge, 
Tottered to where the " Forty -third " stood waiting for their 

" charge/' 
Bleeding — but beating still his call — he said, with tear-dimmed 

eyes : 
" Tm but a baby, Forty -third, so teach me how to die ! " 

Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard, and Joubert turned 

away, 
The lad had been the pet of all, they knew not what to say ; 
" I will not shame you, ' Forty-third' though I am but a child ! '* 
Then Regnier stooped and kissed his face, and shouted loud and 

wild : 









104 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

" Forward ! Why arc wc waiting here ? Shall Mamelukes 

stop our way ? 
Come, little Jean, and beat the " charge," and ours shall be the 

day ; 
And we will show thee how to die, good boy ! good boy ! Be 

brave ! 
It is not every ' nine years' old ' cau fill a soldier's grave ! " 

It was as though a spirit spoke, the men to battle flew ; 

Yet each in passing, cried aloud : " Mon petit Jean, Adieu ! " 

" Adieu, brave Forty-third, Adieu ! " Then proudly beat hi 3 

drum — 
" You've shoiced me how a soldier dies — and petit Jean will 

come ! " 

They found him 'mid the slain next day, amid the brave who 
fell, 

Said Regnier, proudly, "My brave Jean, thou learned thy les- 
son well ! " 

They hung the medal round his neck, and crossed his childish 
hands, 

And dug for him a little grave in Egypt's lonely sands. 

But, still, the corps his memory keep, and name with flashing 
eye, 

The hero whom the " Forty-third/' in Egypt, taught to die. 



JANETTE'S HAIR 

MILES O'REILLY. 



O loosen the snood that you wear, Janette, 

Let me tangle my hand in your hair, my pet— 

For the world to me had no daintier sight 

Than your own brown hair veiling your shoulders white, 

As I tangled a hand in your hair, my pet. 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 105 

It was brown witli a golden gloss.. Janette, 

It was finer than silk of the floss, my pet, 

'Twas a thing to be braided, and jewelled, and kissed, 

'Twas the loveliest thing in the world, my pet. 



My arm was the arm of a clown, Janette, 
It was sinewy, bristled and brown, my pet, 
But warmly and softly it loved to caress 
Your beautiful plenty of hair, my pet. 

Your eyes had a swimming glory, Janette, 
Revealing the dear old story, my pet, 
They were gray, with that chastened tinge of the sky, 
When the trout leaps quickest to snap the fly — 
And they matched with your golden hair, my pet. 

Your lips — but I have no words, Janette, 
They were fresh as the twitter of birds, my pet, 
When the Spring is young and the roses are wet 
With dewdrops in each red bosom set, 
And they suited your gold-brown hair, my pet. 



Oh, you tangled my life in your hair, Janette, 
'Twas a silken and golden snare, my pet ; 
But so gentle the bondage my soul did implore 
The right to continue your slave evermore, 
With my finger enmeshed in your hair, my pet. 

Thus ever I dream what you were, Janette, 

With your lips, and your eyes, and your hair, my pet ; 

In the darkness of desolate years I moan, 

And my tears fall bitterly over the stone 

That covers your golden hair, my pet. 






106 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATION8. 

MT MOTHEK'S OLD SHOE. 

MRS. G. LINNEUS BANKS. 

I remember the parting from motlier and home, 
In the time long ago, ere my fortune had come ; 
My years were but few, and my pocket was light, 
Whilst the world lay before me to use as I might. 
The parting was hopeful, yet anxious and sore, 
And my mother's old shoe followed me from the door, 
With a blessing so fervent, so lender, so true, 
I felt there was luck in the cast of that shoe. 

I think -my steps faltered at first on the track, 

But 1 set my face forward and never looked back : 

I'd a purpose before me I could not resign, 

Though the tears wet my cheeks for that mother of mine, 

Whose earnest advice lingers yet on my mind, 

For it came like a psalm on the breath of the wind : 

" Love mercy, act justly, walk humbly, be true, 

And my blessing shall follow you with my old shoe." 

I trudged forward stoutly, and rode when I could, 

For means would not let me do just as I would. 

I was bound to be frugal and husband my store, 

Since my journey would end at no open door ; 

And each city or town I went through or went past, 

Made me feel myself little — the wilderness vast ; 

And my boy's heart sank low when came London in view, 

Till I thought of the omen of mother's old shoe. 

Long I traversed the city, employment to gain, 
But, unknown and friendless, 'twas hard to obtain, 
With no recommendation from any " last place," 
Save that writ by God on an honest lad's face. 



prescott's DRAWING-ROOM recitations. 107 

Yet this seemed no passport ; where'er I applied 
Men doubted the worth that had never been tried ; 
When — disheartened, despairing— hope sprang up anew 
With a cast of good luck from my mother's old shoe. 

At last one man trusted my face or my tone, 

Took me in, found me work, made my dwelling his own ; 

How I served is best told by the progress I made 

From that lowly first-step up the ladder of trade. 

But promotion is certain when duty is done, 

And I never swerved from the course once begun ; 

"Love mercy, act justly, walk humbly, be true," 

Being carved as a motto on mother's old shoe. 



Resolved to be rich in my manhood and age, 
From the first I was prudent, and saved from my wage ; 
Kept free from the pleasures that lure into crime, 
And husbanded surely the " small change" of time. 
Such books as bring knowledge I carefully read, 
And made myself wiser while sloth lay abed. 
Then I loved, not too wisely, as men seldom do, 
But I think I went w r ooing without the old shoe. 

All went smoothly until came the sordid rebuff 

To my heart's earnest suit — I was " not rich enough !' 

Love, honesty, industry, scarce worth a thought, 

And my own thriving business, too, counted as naught. 

That reply set a seal on my bachelor life, 

And I turned unto commerce as unto a wife ; 

Coming back to my traffic with vigor anew, 

Yet regarding the precept on mother's old shoe. 

From that time aU things prospered — I gave without stint, 
Yet gold poured upon me as if from the mint. 
I bought the old homestead I left in my youth, 
Where I learned to love virtue, and honor, and truth : 






103 PBDSCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS, 

I gathered around mc my kith and my kin, 
Setting them in the way a like fortune to win ; 
And I strove to act humbly, still keeping in view 
The precept engraved on my mother's old shoe. 

That motlier who would have been proud of her son, 

Had slie lived to see the position he won ; 

The name upon 'change now as good as the best, 

And the good- will of men, put so oft to the test. 

I recall how she spoke of my progress with pride, 

When I went in my manhood to sit by her side, 

And pay to the last all the reverence due 

To the mother whose blessing so hallowed lier shoe. 

My mother's old shoe ! All I am, or have been, 
I trace back to its source in that one parting scene, 
When I left the old homestead, untutored, untried, 
For a world full of pitfalls both open and wide, 
With little to steady my upward career, 
Save the blessing which lingered so long on my ear ; 
And, when men call me lucky, as thoughtless men do, 
I think of that blessing, and mother's old shoe. 



JACK PKOST AND THE OHEISTMAS TEEES. 

S. J. BURKE. 

Away up at the North Pole, 

Lives Jack Frost ! 
Sir John Franklin went hunting for him, 

And that's the way he got lost ; 
For though old Jack goes travelling round, 

Calling on high and low, 
He never asks people to visit him 

In his palace of ioo and snow. 



FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 109 

But there he lives at his ease 

All the Summer long, 
Dining on ice-cream, 

And taking his ice-water — strong! 
There, where ' ' the midnight sun " 

Out-shines the Nothern stars, 
He holds his court, and smokes 

Icicles for cigars I 



But when the Winter comes, 

The old fellow shakes himself, 
Orders out his sleigh, 

And takes his whip from the shelf ; 
And making all tight and fast, 

Like a householder wise and true, 
He comes down here to see 

What mischief he can do. 



Betaking himself to the woods, 

He pinehes with fingers cold 
The chestnut and maple trees, 

And they flame in scarlet and gold ; 
The vines and the sumacs, too, 

Turn brilliant red with rage, 
And he showers on the ground 

The loveliest foliage ! 



But when he comes to the pines, 

The hemlocks and cedars, too, 
He says, " Let them keep their leaves : 

'T would never, never do 
To spoil the children's fun 

By laying these branches low ; 
Santa Claus will be here looking 

For Christmas trees, I know ! " 



110 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

And so, my little folks, 

As the Christmas time draws near, 
Old Santa Claus goes with his hatchet 

Oat in the woods so drear, 
And wherever he sees a tree 

With dark leaves overgrown, 
With a chuckle, a nod, and a wink, 

He marks it for his own. 



LITTLE HOME BODY. 

GEORGE COOPER. 

Little Home-Body is mother's wee pet, 
Fairest and sweetest of housekeepers yet, 
Up when the roses in golden light peep, 
Helping her mother to sew and to sweep. 
Tidy and prim in her apron and gown, 
Brightest of eyes, of the bonniest brown ; 
Tiniest fingers, and needle so fleet, 
Pattern of womanhood, down at my feet. 



Little Home-Body is grave and demure, 
Weeps when you speak of the wretched and poor, 
Though she can laugh in the merriest way 
While you are telliug a tale that is gay. 
Lily that blooms in some lone, leafy nook ; 
Sly little hide-away, moss sided brook ; 
Fairies are fine, where the silver dews fall 
Home fairies — these are the best of them all ! 



prescott's drawing-room recitations, J1J 

TO A DAUGHTER OF NEW ENGLAND 

ON RECEIPT GF A PITMPKIN PIE ON THANKSGIVING DAY, 

Thanks, lady, thanks— thy hand well skilled 

To touch with fairy fingers 
The harpsichord with music filled, 

As o'er it beauty lingers — 

Pidst thou descend where plate and platter 

In goodly order stand, 
And form for mo this pretty batter, 

This gift from Yankee Land? 

Oh, were I blest with wit and taste 

Well seasoned as thy pie, 
J would in numbers puff thy paste. 

Nor inafee a tart reply, 

Thou modest pumpkin \ gentle hands? 

Did pluck thee from the vine 
And made thee pride of eastern lands 

Whene'er their children dins. 

And though Jliou wer£ of mo4^st birth, 

Nay, grovelled in tlie dirt. 
Yet all New England fcnows thy wortlj. 

And owns thy rich dessert ! 

And Pilgrim daughters on this isle, 

Where squashes most abound, 
Will greet thy presence with a smile, 

When Thanksgiving rolls around. 

Then, lady, will my prayers ascend 

For richest gifts on thee ; 
And Heaven will bless the gentle friend 

Who shares her crust with me. 






113 FRESCOTT/'S DRAWING ROOM RECITATION8. 

And though I fear my own desert 

Will ne'er awarded be, 
My flattered fancy must revert 

To one sweet puff from thee. 

And should I run the race of fame, 

I'll feel, with joy elate, 
That no dishonor clouds his name 

Who's won a lady's plate I 



THE CHILDBED HJ THE MOOK 

FROM THE SCANDINAVIAN. 

Harken, child, unto a story, 

For the moon is in the sky, 
And across her shield of silver 

See two tiny cloudlets fly. 

Watch them closely, mark them sharply, 
As across the light they pass : 

Seem they not to have the figures 
Of a little lad and lass ? 

See, my child, across their shoulders 

Lies a little pole, and lo ! 
Yonder speck is just the bucket 

Swinging softly to and fro. 

It is said these little children, 
Many and many a summer night, 

To a little well, far northward, 
Wandered iu the still moonlight. 

To the wayside well they trotted, 
Filled their little buckets there : 

And the moon-man looking downward. 
Saw how beautiful they were. 



PRESCOTT'8 DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 113 

Quotli the man : " How vexed and sulky 

Looks the little rosy boy ! 
But the little handsome maiden 

Trips behind him full of joy. 

11 To the well behind the hedge-row 

Trot the little lad and maiden ; 
From the well behind the hedge-row 

Now the little pail is laden. 

" How they please me ! how they tempt me ! 

Shall I snatch them up to-night ? 
Snatch them, set them here forever, 

In the middle of my light ? 

" Children, ay, and children's children, 

Should behold my babes on high ; 
And my babes should smile forever, 

Calling others to the sky ! " 

Thus the. philosophic moon-man 

Muttered many years ago ; 
Set the babes with pail and bucket 

To delight the folks below. 

Never is the bucket empty ; 

Never are the children old ; 
Ever when the moon is shining 

We the children may behold. 

Ever young and ever little, 

Ever sweet and ever fair ! 
When thou art a man, my darling, 

Still the children will be there. 

Ever young and ever little, 

They will smile when thou art old ; 
When thy locks arc thin and silver, 

Theirs will still be shining gold. 



114 prescott's drawing-room recitations, 

They will haunt thee from their heaven, 
Softly beckoning down the gloom ; 

Smiling in eternal sweetness 
On thy cradle, on thy tomb ! 



BABY'S THINGS, 

THALIA WILKINSON, 

Hide the little boots away — 
Boots wherein your darling's feet 

Pattered through the busy day, 
Making all your life complete ; 

But the feet are still to-day — 

Hide the little boots away, 

Hide the little cap from sight—* 
There are, now, no babyreyes, 

Gladdened by its tassel bright, 
Laug ling out in gay surprise » 

Dear, sweet eyes aYe closed for aye*** 

Hide the little cap away, 

Hide the dainty coat from sight— 
For he'll scarcely need it now, 

With his dimpled arms so white 
And this silence o'er his brow—* 

Little empty coat of gray, 

Put it with the cap away, 

Hide the precious form from, sight, 
With these other useless things^ 

Lay it 'neath the blossoms white, 
For he's won his cherub-wings ; 

And the feet shall never stray, 

That are so white aud still to-day. 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 115 

THE MOAT OF LITE. 

JOHN ANTRORUS. 

I had a dream ! 
In childhood's happy day ; 
The gilded crocus carpeted my way ; 
The blue-bell nestled low among the leaves, 
Tawney and purple vines and yellow sheaves. 
A sense of happiness my life did only seem. 

A murmuring dream ! 

I had a hope ! 
When youth came flushing on, 
Clad with the tinted garments of the sun. 
Wild roses opening clasped in either hand, 
Whose petals noiseless dropped on jeweled sand, 
Long, perfumed vistas, through whose aisles I saw 
The ocean Life by many a bosky shore ; 
Where, blue and gold, arose on every slope 

The robes of hope I 

I had a love ! 
The passion all divine, 

The glittering ruby of the sun-flushed wine, 
Nor froth, nor dregs, but crystals pure as gold 
Reflecting tenderly the thought untold — 
Bright, panting forms and rosy sandaled feet> 
Swift flying where the yellow jasmines meet. 
Deep, violet eyes and sun-meshed hair that wove 

This tangle love ! 

I had a thought ! 
That widened like those rings, 
Evoked of placid pools by rushing wings : 
Or rain-drops falling, making countless spheres — 
One tear the portent of a thousand tears. 






115 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

And there were vibrant, striving to be free, 
Spirits of nature, art and melody. 
A straggling sunbeam by a prism caught, 
Resolved that thought ! 



I had a friend, 
He was of stately mould, 
As things were fashioned in the age of gold ! 
He stood to me as one divinely wrought ; 
He wore the decorations of my thought. 
Sunlight and starlight, all the finer things 
Were brought to him as gifts are brought to kings ; 
The rarest attributes did here divinely blend 

To make a friend ! 



I had broad lands ! 
Broad lands by labor won, 
The green declivities that woo the sun ; 
And gold whose glitter made the blinking eyes 
Of harvest friends grow dazed with sad surprise. 
Fat Plenty sat full-measured at my board ; 
None knew of stint when my red wine was poured. 
These things I had — they trembled in my hands — 

These yielding lands ! 



I had some fame ! 
That thing that men call fame, 
That flings a rainbow promise round a name ; 
The voiceful multitude, who ever cry : 
" Build up to-day ; to-morrow we destroy ! " 
They like the winds that urge the galleon's sails, 
Allure with lutes, then blast with stormy gales ; 
These horrid babblers wilful gods became 

And wrought us fame ! 






frescott's drawing-room recitations. 117 

I had a tower ! 
And this was all my own ; 
Reared not of rock nor iron-belted stone, 
But subtler built, witli turrets, whence I saw 
The fruitful earth harmonious by law. 
Within this tower lay calm my treasure trove, 
Childhood and youth and hope and starry love. 
The moat of life, reflected hour by hour, 

This brain -wrought tower. 

happy dream ! 
It was but yesterday, 

That cradled childhood heard its roundelay : 
But yet awhile and youth with glowing hands, 
Picked gold and jewels from the glittering sands ; 
And manhood stepped with energy sublime, 
To pluck the hourglass from the grasp of Time, 
But now the sands fast falling shroud 'twould seem 
A fading dream ! 

1 have no dream ! 
'Tis dark reality ; 

The tower alone is all that's left to me, 
From its bare turrets I behold the earth, 
Blasted with winter, scourged with drcuth and dearth ; 
Its blackened seas are shored with tumuli, 
Its bannered kingdoms battle but to die ; 
The vulture carnage o'er red fields doth scream, 
"Behold your dream ! " 

silent grave ! 
In this I now behold, 
All that men toiled for in the ages old ; 
The pomp, the pride, the charlatan called fame, 
Lie hapless cast with misery and shame ; 
With kings and slaves and beggars in the dust, 
Too foul to contemplate, the brood of lust ! 
The sport of gods ! frail men how will ye brave 

This common grave ! 






118 trescott's dra wing-room recitations. 

Egyptian Seer ! 
Whose prescient eye foresaw 
The monstrous progeny of broken law ; 
The serpent symbol through four thousand years, 
Trails its dull length still circling with the spheres ; 
The watery vast, the Moat of this gray world, 
Huge Typhon, still in loathesome embrace curled 
About humanity who cannot hear 
Even a note from any other sphere, — 

For Death reigns here ! 

But still my Tower 
Holds memory on its walls, 
'Midst monuments and shrouds, and faded palls, 
Finds yet her harps amid the wrecks around, 
Gives forth sad murmurings and broken sounds ; 
Sounds of glad childhood, youth and manhood gone 
With griefs whose drops might wear away a stone, 
Cease, sobbing harps, the songs that r.orrow knows ; 
Beyond the starry gates there lies repose, 

Alone, there lies repose ! 



SONG. 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 

spirit of the summertime I 
Bring back the roses to the dells : 

The swallow from her distant clime, 
The honey-bee from drowsy cells. 

Bring back the friendship of the sun ; 

The gilded evenings calm and late, 
When merry children homeward run, 

And peeping stars bid lovers wait. 

Bring back the singing ; and the scent 
Of meadow lands at dewy prime ; 

0, bring again my heart's content, 
Thou spirit of the summertime. 



PBESCOTT'S DTlAWIXO-TtOOM ItECITATIONfl. 119 

BABY ALICE'S RAIN. 

JOHN HAY FUKNESS. 

The drouth had been long — oh, very long" — 
The whole long month of blithesome May ; 

The rain-clouds seemed to have wandered wrong, 
From the pinched, brown land so far away : 

Leaves fell ; and the blue-birds hushed their song, 
As field and forest grew dim and gray. 

Then, one night the clouds had gathered : the wind 
Came in from the east ; but it needed trust 

To believe that the soft rain lurked behind, 
To cool the fierce heat and to lay the dust : 

So soon we forget that God is kind ! 
So easily cease to hope and to trust ! 

But it rained at morning : oh, welcome fall 
Of the drops from heaven, that had such need ! 

Those drops that have fallen alike on all, 
Of the kindly thought and the cruel deed, 

Since the plant of life was so tiny and small 
When the Mighty Hand had just dropped the seed. 

Did we wonder, to see it come at last — 
This coveted blessing ? — wee Alice did not, 

As quick to the window all dimpled she passed, 
Springing up in glee from her little cot, 

And bearing a love so holy and vast 
In such limited space — dear baby tot ! 

" Look, mamma ! look, papa ! — oh yes, it yanes ! 

" I tought dere ood be some 'ittle showers ! 
" Detoration Day — Dod takes such pains ! 

"Don't 'u see Dod's waterin' de soldiers' fowers?" 
Oh, lips of the children ! — there's something remains, 

Yet, of Eden's prime, in this world of ours. 









ISO frescott's drawing-room recitations. 

NEVER SAT <I CAN'T." 

MRS. M. A. KIDDER, 

" Friend, I can't do it ! " Oh, shame on you, laddie ! 

Shame on your tongue that's so swift to reply, 
Ready excuses may do for the shiftless ; 

Never for him who a third time would try. 

" No ! I icont do it ! " — that, even, sounds better ; 

Showing some nerve, and a will of your own ; 
Proving, ofttimes, in the hours of temptation, 

Breastwork and bulwark as solid as stone. 

° Yes : I will do it ! I'm bound to go through it ! M 
Look at the stripling who utters these words ; 

Proudly erect as he maps out his future ; 
Fearless, as on his true armor he girds. 

What cares the lad, with his heart full of courage, 
Strength in his step, and youth's fire in his eye, 

What careth he that the burdens be many ? 
What careth he that the mountains be high ? 

Only the laggard, who sits by the wayside, 
Watching the sickles that gleam in the sun ; 

Only the sluggard, who wastes the bright morning, 
Crieth, " I can't ! " should the goal ne'er be won. 

Often the boys will be petted and pampered ; 

Shielded too much from the rough, wholesome blast. 
Better, almost, for a youngster of spirit 

Into the billows of chance to be cast. 

Rich, then, or poor, lads, it matters not, surely, 
If you are " trying " and doing your best. 

After the sowing, then cometh the harvest ; 
After the labor, then cometh the rest. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 121 

ON A SPKIG OP HEATH. 

MRS. GRANT. 

Flower of the waste ! the heath-fowl shuns 
For thee the brake and tangled wood — 

To thy protecting shade she runs, 
Thy tender buds supply her food ; 

Her young forsake her downy plumes, 

To rest upon thy opening blooms. 

Flower of the desert though thou art ! 

The deer that range the mountain free, 
The graceful doc, the stately hart, 

Their food and shelter sock from thee. 
The bee thy earliest blossom greets, 
And drains from thee her choicest sweets. 

Gem of the heath ! whose modest gloom 

Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor ; 
Though thou dispense no rich perfume, 

N or yet with splendid tints allure, 
Both valor's crest and beauty's bower 
Oft hast thou decked — a favorite flower. 

Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow 

Adorns the dusky mountain side, 
Not the gay hues of Iris* bow, 

Nor garden's artful, varied pride, 
With all its wealth of sweets could cheer 
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. 

Flower of his heart ! thy fragrance mild 
Of peace and freedom seemed to breathe ; 

To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, 
And deck his bonnet with the wreath 

Where dwelt of old his rustic sires, 

Is all his simple wish requires. 






122 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Flower of his dear loved native land ! 

Alas ! when distant far more dear ! 
When he from some cold foreign strand, 

Looks homeward through the blinding tear, 
How must his aching heart deplore, 
That home and thee he sees no more ! 



THE TBUMPET. 

MRS. REMANS. 

The trumpet's voice hath roused the land, 

Light up the beacon pyre ! 
A hundred hills have seen the brand 

And waved the sign of fire. 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast — 
And hark ! was that the sound of seas ? 

— A king to war went pass. 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasantry his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call, 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion by his side, 
E'en for the marriage altar crowned, 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear, 

By earthly clarion spread ! 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead ? 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 123 



ALONE AT EIGHTY. 

What did you say, dear — breakfast ? 

Somehow I've slept too late ; 
You are very kind, dear Effie — 

Go tell them not to wait, 
I'll dress as quick as I ever can ; 

My old hands tremble sore, 
And Polly, who used to help, dear heart ! 

Lies t'other side o' door. 

Put up the old pipe, deary — 

I couldn't smoke to-day, 
I'm sort o' dazed and frightened 

And don't know what to say. 
It's lonesome in the house here, 

And lonesome out o' door — 
I never knew what lonesome meant, 

In all my life before. 

The bees go humming the whole day long, 

And the first June rose has blown, 
And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day — 

Too old to be left alone. 
O, heart of love, so still and cold ! 

0, precious lips so white — 
For the first sad hours in sixty years 

You were out of reach last night. 

You've cut the flower. You're very kind ; 

She rooted it last May, 
It was only a slip, I pulled the rose 

And threw the stein away ; 
But she, sweet, thrifty soul bent down 

And planted it where she stood, 
" Dear, maybe the flowers are living," she said. 

Asleep in this bit of wood. 



124 [rHESCOTT'S DRAWING room recitations. 

I can't rest, deary — I cannot rest ; 

Let the old man have his will, 
And wander from porch to garden post — 

The house is so dreadfully still ; 
Wander and long for a sight at the gate 

She has left ajar for me — 
We have got so used to each other, dear, 

So used to each other, you see. 



Sixty years, and so wise and good, 

She made me a better man 
From the moment I kissed her fair young face, 

And our lover's life began. 
And seven fine boys she has given me, 

And out of the seven not one 
But the noblest father in the land 

Would be proud to call his son. 



O, well, dear Lord, I'll be patient, 

But I feel so broken up, 
At eighty years ife an awsome thing 

To drain such a bitter cup. 
I know there's Joseph and John and Hal, 

And four good men beside, 
But a hundred sons couldn't be to me 

Like the woman I made my bride. 



My little Polly so bright and fair, 

So winsome and good and sweet ! 
She had roses twined in her sunny hair, 

White shoes en her dainty feet. 
And I held her hand — was it yesterday 

That we stood up to be wed ! 
And — No, I remember : I'm eighty to-day, 

And my dear wife, Polly, is dead. 



TOESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 125 

THEY DIDFT THINK. 

PHCEBE CARY. 

Once a trap was baited 

With a piece of cheese, 
It tickled so a little mouse 

It almost made him sneeze. 
An old rat said, " There's danger, 

Be careful where you go ! " 
" Nonsense ! " said the other, 

" I don't think you know I" 
So he walked in. boldly ; 

Nobody in sight ; 
First he took a nibble, 

Then he took a bite ; 
Close the trap together 

Snapped, quick as wink, 
Catching mousy fast there, 

'Cause he didn't think. 

Once a little turkey, 

Fond of her own way, 
Wouldn't ask the old ones 

Where to go or stay. 
She said, " I'm not a baby ; 

Here I am, half grown ; 
Surely I am big enough 

To run around alone ! " 
Off she went, but somebody, 

Hiding, saw her pass ;' 
Soon like snow her feathers 

Covered all the grass ; 
So she made a supper 

For a sly young mink, 
'Cause she was so headstrong 

That she wouldn't think. 



126 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Once there was a robin 

Lived outside the door, 
Who wanted to go inside 

And hop upon the floor. 
" No, no," said the mother, 

4< You must stay with me ; 
Little birds are safest 

Sitting in a tree ! " 
" I don't care/' said robin, 

And gave his tail a fling 
** I don't think the old folks ; 

Know quite everything." 
Down he flew, and kitty seized him, 

Before he'd time to blink ; 
" Oh I " he cried, " I'm sorry, 

But I didn't think." 



AN ALSAOE LEGEND. 

I>. S. COSTELLO. 

Knowest thou. Gretchen, how it happens 

That the dear ones die ? 
God walks daily in His garden 

While the sun shines high. 

In that garden there are roses, 

Beautiful and bright, 
And He gazes round, delighted 

With the lovely sight. 

If He marks one gayly blooming, 

Than the rest more fair, 
He will pause and gaze upon it, 

Full of tender care. 



frescott's drawing-room recitations. 127 

And the beauteous rose He gathers 

Iu His bosom lies ; 
But on earth are tears and sorrow, 

For a dear one dies. 



THE " SUMMER LAUD." 

BELL CLINTON. 

" Over the river, " the " Summer Land" lies 
Fadeless its blossoms, unclouded its skies, 
Towers shimmer not in the sun- raj's light, 
Stars never glow— for there falleth no night. 
O'er it God's glory transcendently flows, 
Bathing it ever in holy repose. 

Ah ! we get gleams of that glorious land, 
When by the river's bank trembling we stand, 
Watching the waves that unceasingly flow 
Over the crossing where loved ones must go. 
They see the beams of the heavenly light 
Gilding its glittering columns of white. 

They hear the songs and rustle of wings, 
We — but the echo their ecstasy brings — 
Why do we sorrow when happy they lie 
Ready for angels to bear them on high ? 
Such treasures we need their sunlight to throw 
Over our pathway while waiting below. 

Are there no flowers in the bright Summer Land ? 

Aye ! tenderly kept by our Father's hand, 

Borne in His love from the chill light, of Time, 

Transplanted, they bloom in a heavenly clime. 

— May we be welcomed at last to the band, 

Who, "sinless," are roaming the blest Summer Land. 






128 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 



WHY HE WOULDN'T DIE. 

Listen, my boy, and you shall know 

A thing that happened a long time ago, 

When I was a boy not as large as yon, 

And the youngest of all the children, too. 

I laugh even now as I think it o'er, 

And the more I think I laugh the more. 

'Twas the chilly eve of an autumn day, 

We were all in the kitchen cheery and gay ; 

The fire burned bright on the old brick hearth, 

And its cheerful light gave zest to our mirth. 

My elder sister, addressing me, 

" To-morrow's Thanksgiving, you know," said she ; 

" We mast kill the chickens to-night, you see. 

Now light the lantern and come with me ; 

I will wring their necks until they are dead, 

And have them all dressed ere Ave go to bed." 

So the huge old lantern, made of tin, 

Punched full of holes, and a candle within, 

Put in its appearance in a shorter time 

Than it takes to make this jingling rhyme. 

We started off, and the way I led, 

For a raid on the chickens under the shed. 

A pile of roots filled the open space, 

Thus making a splendid roosting place ; 

And a motley tribe of domestic fowls 

Sat perched there as grave and demure as owls. 

My sister, unused to sights of blood, 

And pale with excitement, trembling stood ; 

But summoning courage, she laid her plans, 

And seized the old rooster with both her hands, 

And with triumph written all over her face, 

Her victim bore to the open space. 

Then she wrung and wrung with might and main, 

And wrung and twisted, and wrung again, 

'Till, sure that the spark of life had fled, 



FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 129 

She threw him down on the ground for dead. 
Bat the rooster would not consent to die, 
And be made up into chicken pie, 
So he sprang away with a cackle ana bound, 
Almost as soon as he touched the ground, 
And hiding away from the candle's light, 
Escaped the slaughter of that dark night. 
My sister, thus brought to a sudden stand, 
And looking at what she held in her hand, 
Soon saw why the rooster was not dead — 
She had wrung off his tail instead of his head. 



LA35TDITO OP THE PILGEIM TATHEES. 

MRS. HEMANS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast,' 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tost. 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame. 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; 
They shook the depths of the forest gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 






180 frescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard, and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free. 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white waves' foam, 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared— 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band : — 
Why had the?/ come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow, serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth ! 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Aye ! call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod, 

They have left unstained what there they found- 
Freedom to worship God ! 



COUNTRY LIPE. 

JOANNA BAILLIE. 

Even now methinks 
Each little cottage of my native vale 
Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof, 
Like to a hillock moved by lab'ring mole, 
And with green trail- weeds clamb'ring up its walls, 
Roses and every gay and fragrant plant. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 131 

Before my fancy stands a fairy bower, 
Aye ! and within it, too, do fairies dwell. 
Peep th rough its wreathed window, if indeed 
The flowers grow not too close, and there within 
Thou'lt see some half-a-dozen rosy brats 
Eating from wooden bowls there dainty milk : — 
Those are my mountain elves. See'st thou not, 
See'st thou not their very forms distinctly ? 

I'll gather round my board 
All that heaven sends to me of way-worn folks, 
And noble travellers, and neighboring friends, 
Both young and old. Within my ample hall 
The woruout man of arms shall tiptoe tread, 
Tossing his gray locks from his wrinkled brow 
With cheerful freedom as he boasts his feats 
Of days gone by. — Music well have ; and oft 
The bick'ring dance upon our oaken floors 
Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear 
Of 'nightcd travellers, who shall gladly bc j nd 
Thek* doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din. 
Solemn, and grave, and thoughtful, and demure. 
We shall not be, Will this content ye, damsels ? 

Every season 
Shall have its suited pastime ; even winter 
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow, 
And choked valleys from our mansion bar 
All entrance, and ne'er guest and traveller 
Sounds at our gate ; the empty hall forsaking, 
In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire 
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court, 
Plying our work with song and tale betwixt. 



132 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 



ONE OP THE LITTLE ONES. 

'Twas a crowded street, and a cry of joy 
Came from a ragged, barefoot boy — 
A cry of eager and glad surprise, 
And lie opened wide Lis great black eyes, 
As he held before him a coin of gold 
He had found in a heap of rubbish old 
By the curb-stone there. 



The passers-by 
Paused at hearing that joyous cry, 
As if 'twere a heavenly chime that rung 
Or a note from some angel song had been sung 
There, in the midst of the hurry and din 
That raged the city's heart within, 
And they wondered to hear that song of grace 
Sung in such strange, unusual place. 



As ofttimes into a dungeon deep 

Some ray of sunlight perchance will creep, 

So did that innocent, childish cry 

Break on the musings of passers-by 

Bidding them all at once forget 

Stocks, quotations, and tare and tret, 

And the thousand cares with which are rife 

The daily rounds of a business life. 



'4j&>w i t sprarkles ! " the youngster cried 

As the golden piece he eagerly eyed. 

" Oh, see it shine ! " and he laughed aloud, 

Little heeding the curious crowd 

That gathered round. " Hurrah ! " said he, 

" How glad my poor old mother'!! be ! 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 133 

Fll buy her a bran new Sunday bat, 
And a pair of shoes for Nell at that. 
And baby sister shall have a dress — 
There'll be enough for all, I guess : 
And then I'll " 



" Here," said a surly voice, 
" That money's mine. You can take your choice 
Of giving it up or going to jail." 
The youngster trembled, and then turned pale, 
As he looked and saw before him stand 
w A burly drayman with outstretched hand , 
Rough and uncouth was the fellow's face, 
And without a single line or trace 
Of the goodness that makes the world akin. 
" Come, be quick ! or I'll take you in," 
Said he. 

"F or shame ! " said the listening crowd ; 
The ruffian seemed for a moment cowed. 
'/JThe money is mine," he blustered out ; 
" I lost it yesterday hereabout. 
Fdon't want nothing but what's my own, 
And I'm goin' to have it." 

The lad alone 
Was silent. A tear stood in his eye, 
But he brushed it away, he icould not cry. 
'Here, mister," he answered, " take it then ; 

If it's yours, it's yours ; if it hadn't been " 

A sob told all he would have said, 
Of a hope so suddenly raised, now dead ; 
And then with a sigh, which volumes told, 
_ ~^JIe dropped the glittering piece of gold 
Into the other's hand. Once more 
He sighed — and his dream of wealth was o'er, 
But no ! Humanity hath a heart 
Always ready to take the part 



134 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Of childish sorrow, wherever found. 

" Let's make up a purse V — the word went round 

Through the kindly crowd, and a hat was passed 

And the coins came falling thick and fast. 

" Here, sonny, take this," said they. Behold ! 

Full twice as much as the piece of gold 

He had given up was in the hand 

Of the urchin. He could not understand 

It all. The tears came thick and fast, 

And his grateful heart found voice at last. 

Bu t, lo ! when he spoke, the crowd had gone- 
Left him, in gratitude, there alone. 
W ho'll say there is not some sweet good- will 
And kindness left in this cold world still ? 



GOD BLESS OUK SCHOOL. 

About the room the Christmas greens 

In rich profusion hung, 
While sparkling in their gilded dress 

Those graceful vines among, 
Were fitting mottoes wrought with care, 

Each with its wealth of good, 
And this of all that decked those walls, 

The children's favorite stood — 
" God bless our school." 

It glittered in the morning sun 

In characters of gold, 
As beautiful at noontide hour, 

Like Truth that ne'er grows old ; 
What though the storms were fierce without, 

With low-hung clouds of gloom, 
A halo crowned those sacred words, 

Its radiance filled the rocm — 
"God bless our school." 



prescott's dratvtng-room recitations. 135 

Once to my side a fair young child 

Came with her eyes of blue, 
So full of light and innocence, 

Pure thoughts were there I knew. 
" Teacher/' said she, '• I wonder so 

If it can really be, 
That God, who lives high up above, 

Looks down from heaven to see, 
And bless our school." 

Oh, what a fitting time to teach 

A sweet and holy truth, 
To leave its impress deep engraved 

Upon the mind of youth ! 
I took the little hand in mine, 

Gazed in that childish face, 
And told how He, whose watchful love 

Abides in every place, 

Gould bless our school ; 

And how not e'en a sparrow's fall, 

Not e'en a raven's cry, 
Though small they seem, could e'er escape 

The notice of His eye. 
The child-face glowed with happy smiles, 

" Ah ! now I know,*' said she, 
" If God loves even the little birds. 

He surely cares for me, 
And all our school." 

O ye ! unto whose tender care 

These little ones are given, 
Spurn not the thoughtful questionings, 

But turn their hearts to heaven ; 
And when ye twine about your rooms 

The rich festoons of green 
There place among those graceful vines 

These golden words to gleam — 
" God bless our school." 



136 prescott's drawing-boom recitations. 

THE WHIRLWIND, 

MISS JULIET H. LEWIS. 

Tlie whirlwind " would take a walk one day," 
(And a very fast " walker is he,") 
So bustling about, 
He at length set out, 
With a step right blithe and free. 

'Twas plainly seen, as he rushed along, 
He was bent on frolic that day ; 

He whistled with glee, 

Or sung merrily, 
For his heart was glad and gay. 

His path lay straight through the dark green wood, 
And away o'er the mountain's broad brow ; 

His track you might trace, 

In every place ; 
For he left his mark, I trow. 



The aspen was first to hear his voice, 
And she shook through each branch at the sound, 

The timid young tree 

Trembled fearfully, 
As she sank upon the ground. 

The hickory heard his sister fall, 
And exclaimed with an ill-natured sneer, 
" She's nervous to-day, 
And doth fade away ; 
Such weakness can't flourish here." 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 137 

\ 

As onward the whirlwind came, he heard 
The rude scoffer unfeelingly jest ; 

So wrenching about 

His old trunk, so stout, 
The strong one was laid to rest. 

The pine saw the hickory's shivered trunk, 
And bowed low as the wind whistled past ; 

But the courtesy . 

Of the nodding tree 
Did save her from the blast. 



The oak, in defiance, tossed his head ; 
For a veteran right bold was he ; 

But a single stroke 

Felled the mighty oak ; 
Alas ! for the proud old tree ! 

On ! onward still ! and his mignty breath 
Sings an anthem of glad triumph now, 

And he laughs to see 

Each old forest tree, 
At his coming, meekly bow. 

The blooming rose heard the whirlwind's voice, 
And it filled her with weighty alarms ; 

But he loved the blush 

Of the .flowering bush, 
And bore her off in his arms. 

On ! onward still ! o'er the land he sweeps, 
With wreck, and ruin, and rush, and roar, 

Nor stops to look back 

On his dreary track, 
But speeds to the spoils before ! 






133 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

MISS JOKES AND THE BUEaLAB. 

S..S. WAGGONER. 

Most women on eartli liave a natural dread 
That a bold, wicked burglar is under their bed ; 
So the last thing" they do, ere retiring at night, 
Is to take, lamp or candle and see that all's right. 

'Tis strange, though, a man never bothers his head 
To look for a woman stowed under his bed ;' 
A woman's ne'er content to close eyes in sleep 
Until for a man she hath taken a peep. 

Now Miss Jones was a spinster of forty or more, 
Who made bonnets, dresses, and kept a small store ; 
She had goods for the. ladies, and goods for the gents, 
And 'twas said had a fortune of dollars and cents. 

She lived all alone, and had often been told, 
That she'd surely be robbed of her silver and gold ; 
So she'd glance 'neath the bed after closing each night, 
To feel safely secure, and know all was right. 

One dark, stormy night, she closed up the store, 
And looked as she'd done "seven thousand times before. 1 * 
She was rewarded at last, for there, with his head 
Turned toward her, lay a man stretched under her bed. 

She did not as some place herself in bad plight 
By calling for neighbors or screaming with fright, 
Or by taking the broom to punch at his head, 
But quietly undressed her, and got into bed. 

To take him at advantage was what she desired, 

So lay still as a cat, after she lrad retired ; 

She heard a sly movement soon under the bed — 

On all fours by came crawling she grabbed for liis head. 



PBESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 139 

With a vise-grip she caught him, each ear she held fast, 
The burglar thought judgment was corning at last. 
Thump ! thump ! went his head down 'gainst the hard floor, 
He begged hard for mercy, as he ne'er begged before. 

*'' I mistook this for my own room/' the wretch loudly cries, 
" And got "ncath the bed to get clear of the flics." 
" Flies, forsooth, indeed, at night ! " Miss Jones meekly said, 
And each time that she spoke, bump, bump, went his head. 

A sleepy policeman, who was just coming past, 

Forced the door for the neighbors, who came rushing in fast ; 

The burglar to the lock-up was escorted that night, 

His head, eyes, and ears a most pitiful sight. 

The judge in the morn on him six months bestowed, 
And applauded Miss Jones for the courage she showed ; 
And as she still looks 'ncath her bed every night, 
Bad luck to the burglar caught in the same plight. 



LITTLE PHIL. 

MRS. HELEN RICH. 



" Make me a headboard, mister, smoothed and painted, you see; 
Our ma she died last winter, and sister, and Jack, and me 
Last Sunday could hardly find her, so many new graves about. 
And Bud cried out, ' We've lost her,' when Jack gave a little 

shout. 
We have worked and saved all winter — been hungry sometimes, 

I own — 
But wc hid this much from father under the old door stone. 
He never goes there to sec her ; he hated her ; scolded Jack, 
When he heard us talking about her and wishing she'd coino 

back. 
But up in the garret wo whisper, and have a good time to cry, 
Our beautiful mother who kissed us, and wasn't afraid to die. 



140 peescott's drawing room recitations. 

Put on it that she was forty, in November she went away, 
That she was the best of mothers, and we haven't forgot to pray ; 
And we mean to do as she taught us — be loving, and true, and 

square, 
To work and read, to love her, till we go to her up there. 
Let the board be white like mother " (the small chin quivered 

here, 
And the lad coughed something under, and conquered a rebel 

tear). 
" Here is all we could keep from father, a dollar and thirty 

cents, 
The rest he has got for coal and flour, and partly to pay the 

rents." 
Blushing the white lie over, and dropping the honest eyes, 
" What is the price of headboards, with writing, and handsome 

size? 
" Three dollars ! " a young roe wounded, just falls with a moan, 

and he, 
With a face like the ghost of his mother, sank down on his tat- 
tered knee. „ * 
N Three dollars ! and we shall lose her, next winter the graves 

and the snow ! " 
But the boss had his arms about him, and cuddled the head of 

tow 
Close up to the great heart's shelter, and womanly tears fell 

fast — 
" Dear boy, you shall never lose her, O cling to your sacred past ! 
Come to-morrow, and bring your sister and Jack, and the board 

shall be 

The best that the shop can furnish, then come here and live 

with me." 
******** 

When the orphans loaded their treasure on the rugged old cart 

next day, 
The surprise of a footboard varnish, with all that their love 

could say ; 
And " Edith St. John, Our Mother ! " baby Jack gave his little 

shout, 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 141 

And Bud, like a mountain daisy, went dancing her doll about. 
But Phil grew white and trembled, and close to the boss he 

crept, 
Kissing him like a woman, shivered, and laughed, and wept : 
" Do you think, my benefactor, in heaven that she'll be glad?" 
" Not as glad as you are, Philip, but finish this job, my lad." 



TAKDTG TOLL. 



In the door of the mill stood Richard Lee ; 
White as an image of snow was he 
From his heavy boots to his beautiful lips, 
From the crown of his hat to his finger tips. 

Now, slowly jogging along the street, 
Drove Farmer Brown and his grist of wheat, 
And with him Bessie, as fresh as the spring, 
And ripe as the fruit the fall months bring. 

While the farmer drove about the town, 
Young Lee ground the wheat and bolted it down ; 
With many a glance at the maiden fair 
Who sat by the door in the oaken chair. 

At last he called her in shouting tones, 
And she stood by the whirling, rumbling stones, 
And watched the grain as it ebbed so still, 
Till the farmer came ; but the noise of the mill 

Drowned the sound of his feet, and over the hopper 
Two heads were bent ; and when Richard Lee 
Saw him standing there, he stammered, " I see — 
" That is " — then he paused and shuffled his feet ; 
" I think there are weevils in your wheat ! " 
But the farmer smiled and said, "Well, Bess, 
Of the two evils always choose the less." 



142 frescott's drawing-room recitations. 

And the maiden looked down confused and meek, 

With a patch of flower en cither cheek. 

Still the old man didn't take it ill, 

For he knew young Richard owned the mill. 

But he mused, as they slowly rode away, 
" Well, I've been to the mill now many a day — 
Say forty odd years — but bless my soul ! 
That chap beat all of them taking toll." 



AN EPISODE OF THE WAE. 

* Loved Papa, when will you come home again ? My own dear Tapa ! n 

In his wind-shaken tent the soldier sits, 

Beside him flares an oil-lamp smokily, 

Whose dim light glooms and flickers on the sheet 

Of rustling paper, that, with eager eyes 

And heart, intent he reads. Now with a smile 

The flaxen-bearded, sunburnt face lights up — 

A smile that in the smiling breeds a pain 

Within his yearning heart ; the gentle hand 

That those sweet, loving words hath traced will he 

Ever again in his protecting clasp 

Enfold it ? Who can tell ? He can but kiss, 

With wild intensity, the page that hand 

Hath touched. Each line, each word read and re-read, 

At last there is no more. With swimming eyes 

He looks, and drinks her name into his soul. 

Yet see those lines with pencil widely ruled, 

Where largely sprawled big letters helplessly ; 

What do they say, those baby characters, 

So feebly huge ? 

" Loved Papa, 

When will you come home again ? 
My own dear Papa I " 



prescott's drawing-room recitations, 143 

As lie reads this the tent to him grows darker, 
His strong hand trembles, and the hot tears bum 
In his blue eyes, and blur the straggling words, 
What need to see ? The words are stamped upon 
His heart, and his whole soul doth feel them there. 
The wind on gusty wings sweeps by, and lo ! 
With its wild voice his child's sweet treble mingles 

" Loved Papa, 

When will you come home again ? 
My own dear Papa J *' 

And now his head is bowed into his hands, 

His brave heart for a moment seems to climb 

Into his throat and choke him. Hark ! what sound 

Thus sharply leaps among and slays the sad 

Wind voices of the autumn night with shrill 

And sudden blast ? The bugle call, " To arms ! " 

And startled sleepers, at its fierce appeal, 

Half dreaming clutch their swords, and grasping wake, 

How many soon to fall asleep again — in death ! 

And on that father's heart the pealing cry 

Strikes cold as ice, though soldiers there's none braver ; 

For, still above the bugle's thrilling breath, 

That pleading child-voice sweetly calls ; 

M Loved Papa, 

When will you come home again ? 
My own dear Papa j " 
# * * * 

Across a rough hillside the light of dawn 

Doth coldly creep, with ruthless touch revealing 

All that by darkness had been hid ; and there, 

Among the stalwart forms that stiffening lie 

Upon the blood-soaked ground, where they lie thickest, 

There is one found, with flaxen hair and beard 

Dark dyed with gore, a bullet in his heart ! 

A crumpled paper in his hand was clutched ; 

'Gainst the cold lips the rigid hand did press 

Some childish writing by his life-blood stained. 






144 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

What were the words ? One scarce caii read them now 
14 Loved Papa, 

When will you come home again ? 
My own dear Papa ! " 



DON'T PKOPOSE. 

Only don't propose to me ! I really like you so ; 
We suit each other charmingly, at ball or feast, you know. 
We can brighten for each other best the revel's careless hours > 
We can gather from each other still the moment's passing 

flowers ; 
We ever best can gladden life's river as it flows 
Through sunny beds and quiet — but I hope yo* won't propose. 

No voice suits mine so well as yours, in gay duet or song, 

No other arm can guide me safe, through the polka's whirling 

throng ; 
No other laugh re-echo's half so merrily to mine, 
No other hand so tastefully my bouquet's flowers can twine ; 
None save me half so cleverly from bores — my deadliest foes ; 
I cannot do without you — oh I I hope you won't propose I 

Why will you talk of sentiment ? you never used to talk 
Of aught but fun or nonsense, in long quadrille or walk. 
Why will you sigh ? I really like your ringing laugh the best. 
Why frown at me for lingering with another joyous guest ? 
Why will you talk of hopes and fears ? why hint at friendship's 

close ? 
You never used to tease me so— oh ! I hope you won't propose ! 

For you know I would refuse you — I must love before I wed ; 
What should we do together when the summer sun had fled ? 
And then, we must be strangers— must pass each other by, 
With flushing cheek and distant bow, and cold, averted eye. 
Why doom our gay companionship to so dolorous a close ? 
We like each other much too well — T hope you won't propose ! 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 145 

Let us still be smiling when we part, and happy when we meet 1 
Let us together pluck the bloom of the flowers at our feet ; 
Let us leave the deeper things alone, and laugh, and sing, and 

dance ; 
And flirt a little now and then, to speed the hour, perchance. 
Oh ! there's a deal of pleasure in sunny links like those ; 
Don't break the rosy ties just yet — dear Charley, don't propose ! 



DOT BABY OP MINE. 

CHARLES F. ADAMS. 

Mine cracious ! Mine cracious ! shust look here und see 

A Deutcher so habby as habby can pe. 

Der beoples all dink dat no prains I haf got, 

Vas grasy mit drinking, or someding like dot ; 

Id vasn't pecause I trinks lager und vine, 

Id vas all on aggount of dot baby off mine. 

Dot schmall leedle vellow I dells you vas qveer ; 
Not mooch pigger round as a goot glass off beer, 
Mit a bare-footed hed, and nose but a schpeck, 
A mout dot goes most to der pack of his neck, 
And his leedle pink toes mid der rest all combine 
To gife sooch a charm to dot baby off mine. 

S 
I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys, 
Und beats leedle Yawcob for making a noise ; 
He shust has pegun to shbeak goot English, too, 
Says '* Mamma," und " Bapa," und somedimes " ah-goo ! " 
You don't find a baby den dimes oudt off nine 
Dot vas qvite so schmart as dot baby off mine. 

He grawls der vloor over, und drows dings aboudt, 
Und puts efryding he can find in his mout ; 
He dumbles der shtairs down, und falls vrom his chair, 
Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible schare 






146 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Mine hair stands like shquills on a mat borcupine 
Ven I dinks of dose pranks of dot baby oil mine, 



Dere vas someding, you pet, I don't likes pooty veil ; 

To hear in der nighdt dimes dot young Deutclier yell, 

Und dravel der pcd-room midgut many clo'es, 

Vhile der chills down der shpine oil mine pack quickly goes. 

Dose leedle shimmasdic dricks vasn't so fine 

Dot I cuts oop at nighdt mit dot baby oft mine. 

Veil, dese leedle schafers vos goin' to pe men, 
Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den ; 
Dey vill vear a vhite shirtvront inshtcd of a bib, 
Und voudn't got tucked oop at nighdt in deir crib. 
Veil ! veil ! ven I'm feeple und in life's decline, 
May mine oldt age pe cheered by dot baby off mine. 



THE LUCKY HOESESHOE. 

A farmer traveling with his load 
Picked up a horseshce in the road, 
And nailed it fast to his barn door, 
That luck might down upon him pour ; 
That every blessing known in life 
Might crown his homestead and his wife, 
And never any kind of harm 
Descend upon his growing farm. 



But dire ill- fortune soon began 
To visit the astounded man. 
His hens declined to lay their eggs, 
His bacon tumbled from the pegs, 
And rats devoured the fallen legs. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 147 

His corn, that never failed before, 
Wilde wed and rotted en the floor ; 
His grass refused to end in hay ; 
His cattle died or went astray ; 
In short, all moved the crooked way. 

Next spring a great drought baked the sod, 

And roasted every pea in pod ; 

The beans declared they could not grow 

So long as nature acted so ; 

Redundant insects reared their brood 

To starve for lack of juicy food ; 

The staves from barrel sides went off 

As if they had the whooping-cough ; 

And nothing of the useful kind 

To hold together felt inclined ; 

In short it was no use to try, 

While all the land was in a fry. 

One morn, demoralized with grief, 
The fanner clamored for relief, 
And tryed right hard to understand 
What witchcraft now possessed his land ; 
Why house and farm in misery grew 
Since he nailed up that " lucky " shoe. 

While thus dismayed o'er matters wrong, 
An old man chanced to trudge along, 
To whom lie told, with wormwood tears, 
How his affairs were in arrears, 
And what a desparate state of things 
A picked- up horseshoe sometimes brings. 

The stranger asked to see the shoe ; 
The farmer brought it into view ; 
But when the old man raised his head, 
He laughed outright, and quickly said : 






148 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

" No wonder skies upon you frown — 
You've nailed the horseshoe upside down 1 
Just turn it round, and soon you'll see 
How you and Fortune will agree." 

The farmer turned the horseshoe round, 
And showers began to swell the ground ; 
The sunshine laughed among his grain, 
And heaps on heaps piled up the wain ; 
The loft his hay could barely hold, 
His cattle did as they were told ; 
His fruit trees needed sturdy props 
To hold the gathering apple crops ; 
His turnip and potato fields 
Astonished all men by their yields ; 
. Folks never saw such ears of corn 
As in his smiling hills were born ; 
His barn was full of bursting bins — 
His wife presented him with twins ; 
His neighbors marvelled more and more 
To see the increase in his store. 
And now the merry farmer sings, 
" There are two ways of doing things ; 
And when for good luck you would pray, 
Nail up the horseshoe the right way." 



THE DYIM NEWSBOY. 

MRS. EMILY THORNTON. 

In an attic bare and cheerless, Jim, the newsboy, dying lay, 
On a rough but clean straw pallet, at the fading of the day ; 
Scant the furniture about him, but bright flowers were in the 

room, 
Crimson phloxes, waxen lilies, roses laden with perfume. 
On a table by the bedside, open at a well-worn page, 
Where the mother had been reading, lay a Bible stained by age. 



frescott's drawing-room recitations. 149 

Now he could not hear the verses ; he was flighty, and she wept 
With her arms around her youngest, who close to her side had 
crept. 



Blacking boots and selling papers, in all weathers day by day, 

Brought upon poor Jim consumption, which was eating life 
away. 

And this cry came with his anguish for each breath a struggle 
cost, 

" 'Ere's the morning Sun and 'Mr aid — latest news of steamship 
lost. 

Papers, mister ? Morning papers ? " Then the cry fell to a 
moan, 

Which was changed a moment later to another frenzied tone : 

«' Black yer boots, sir ? Just a nickle ! Shine 'em like an even- 
ing star. 

It grows late, Jack ! Night is coming. Evening papers, here 
they are ! " 



Soon a mission teacher entered, and approached the humble 

bed ; 
Then poor Jim's mind cleared an instant, with his cool hand on 

his head. 
«' Teacher," cried he, " I remember what you said the other day, 
Ma's been reading of the Saviour, and through Him I see my 

way. /" 



" He is with me 4 Jack, I charge you of our mother take good 

care 
When Jim's gone ! Hark ! boots or papers, which Will I be 

over there ? 
Black yer boots, sir ? Shine 'em right up ! Papers I Read 

God's book instead, 
Better'n papers that to die on 1 Jack " one gasp /and Jim 

was dead 1 






150 . prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Floating from that attic chamber came the teacher's voice in 

prayer, 
And it soothed the hitter sorrow of the mourners kneeling there. 
He commended them to Heaven, while the tears rolled down bis 

face, 
Thanking God that Jim had listened to sweet words of peace 

and grace, 
Ever 'mid the want and squalor of the wretched and the poor, 
Kind hearts find a ready welcome, and an always open door, 
For the sick are in strange places, mourning hearts are every. 

where, 
And such need the voice of kindness, need sweet sympathy and 

prayer. 



WHAT THE OLD MAN SAID. 

ALICE ROB3INS. 

" Well, yes, sir, yes, sir^ thankee ! 

So-so, for my time o' life : 
I'm pretty gray, and bent with pains 

That cut my nerves like a knife : 
The winters bear hard upon me ; 

The summers scorch me sore ; 
I'm sort o' weary of all the world : 

And I'm only turned threescore. 



" My old father is ninety, 

And as hearty as a buck : 
You won't find many men of his ago 

So full of vigor and pluck. 
He felled the first tree cut in the place, 

And laid the first log down ; 
And living an honest, temperate life, 

He's the head man of the town. 



PRESCOTT*S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 151 

" But you see, when I was twenty, or so, 

I wanted to go to the city ; 
And I got with a wild set over there, 

That were neither wise nor witty. 
And so I laid the foundation, sir, 

Of what you sec to-day, — 
Old little a-past the prime of life, 

And a general wasting-away. 

" 'Tain't a natural fever, this, sir : 

It's one no doctor can cure. 
I was made to bear strong burdens, 

Ox-like and slow, but sure ; 
And I only lived for my pleasures. 

Though I had been Christian bred. 
I lived for self, sir, and here's the end, — 

Crawling about half-dead. 

" Well, well ! 'twon't do to think on't. 

I try to forget my pain, 
My poisoned blood, and my shattered nerves, 

My wreck of body and brain. 
Only, I saw you drinking, just now, — 

Drinking that devil's drain : 
There's where I liked to have stepped into hell, 

And gone by the fastest train. 

" You don't like my blunt speech, mebby : 

Well, 'tiSn't the nicest cut ; 
Only, when a man's looked over the brink, 

He knows what he's talking about. 
And if, with his eyes wide open, 

He's walked straight into the flame, 
And nothing less than the mercy of God 

Has turned his glory to shame. 

" Then, when he says there's a drunkard's hell, 

You'd better believe it's true. 
I've fought with the devil hand to hand, 

And tested ldni through and through. 



152 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

We know, who've bartered body and soul, 

What body and soul are worth ; 
And there's nothing like to a drunkard's woe 

In all God's beautiful earth. 

" Wife, children ! Haven't I had them ? Yes ! 

No man has had sweeter than I : 
But children and wife are dead and dust — 

Why, what could they do but die ? 
Don't ask me to tell you of them, because 

It blots out God's mercy even ; 
And it don't seem sure, though I've left my cups, 

That my sin can be forgiven. 

" I tell you it's hard for a shattered hulk 

To drift into harbor safe : 
And I feel sometimes, with my threescore years 

Like a hopeless, homeless waif. 
But there's one thing certain : I've overcome ; 

And I'll fight w T hile I draw a breath, 
When I see a fine young fellow like you 

Go down to the gates of death. 

" You'll laugh, perhaps, at an old man's zeal : 
I laughed in a young man's glee ; 

But God forbid, if you reach threescore, 
You should be a wreck like me ! " 



HOW WILLIE WAS SAVED. 

DAVID HILL 

You see that tree over yonder, with branches long an' wide, 
Underneath which, from the sunlight, the cattle seek to hide ; 
An' the railroad close beside it, with that long train o' cars 
Crawlin' along like a serpent over the iron bars ? 






PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 158 

Well, a year ago last summer, one mornin' in July, 
I was hayin' in the medder, an' spreadin' the grass to dry ; 
Willie, our youngest, was playin' under that self-same tree, 
A-buildin' sticks into houses, as busy as busy could be. 

I left him playin' as usual, an' labored to an' fro 
A-spreadin' the grass before me as fast as I could go ; 
But sudden I heard a whistle, such as an engine makes 
When there is somethin' the trouble, an' warns the use o' brakes. 

I instantly thought o' Willie, an' looked along the track ; 
An' there with his hair a-streamin', an' hangin' down his back, 
An' his little arms a- swinging an' shoutin' at every breath, 
He stood a-facin' the engine in the very jaws of death. 

Had that picture been on paper, 'twere well enough to see, 
But seeing that picture in earnest with me didn't agree ; 
For when I looked upon it my eyes seemed all a blur, 
An' I felt like a man in "the stocks who couldn't hardly stir. 

But while I stood there tremblin' an* paralyzed with fear, 
Thinkin' more thoughts in a second than I could write in a year, 
I saw the cab window open, an' a man, athletic an' tall, 
Shot out with somethin' the quickness of a well-sent cannon- 
ball. 

Over the boiler he clambered, an' round the smokin' stack, 
Until he reached the cow-catcher that runs close to the track ; 
But the moment that he grasped it he stood as firm as steel, 
With the courage of a martyr who dies upon the wheel. 

So, just as that durned engine, greedy for prey as a shark, 
Went sweepin' after its victim like bullets after a mark, 
That engineer leaned forward, and reached his hand ahead ; 
But whiz went the engine by me, an' down went my heart like 
lead. 

I never warn't much at pray in' — never warn't much at a swear ; 
But if ever I felt like prayin' 'twas while I was standin' there. 



154 PEESCOTT'S DKAWING-ROOM KECITATIONS. * 

" God save Willie ! " I shouted ; " Save Willie ! " I shouted 

again, 
Then jumped the fence like a squirrel, an' bounded after the 

train. 

It came to a standstill at last, an' from it went up a cheer, 
An' quickly comin' to meet me, I saw the engineer ; 
In his arms he held up Willie, as chipper an' as gay 
As the moment that I left him under the tree at play. 

I was so overcome with joy, it was hard for me to speak ; 
I couldn't hardly thank him, my tongue it was so weak ; 
But after I'd stopped a little, I walked up straight and square, 
And hugged that feller closer than any grizzly bear. 

So after the scene was over I invited him to call 

At our cottage in the holler, an' see us each an' all. 

So he called on us one evenin'; but, when he entered the door, 

I saw he was young and handsome, — what I hadn't seen before. 

An' Mary Jane, our daughter, noticed it quick as I, 
For she kinder played the 'possum, an' watched him on the sly ; 
An' I saw when she looked at him, an' he looked down at her, 
They were shootin' private glances of a deadly character. 

So at som'at in the cvenin', when talk was gettin' slack, 
An' I'd asked a heap o' questions that wasn't answered back, 
I sorter rose up slowly, an' to Nancy slyly said, 
I guessed we wasn't wanted, an' had better go to bed. 

Well.it ended in a weddin', as you might well suppose ; 
For one mornin' Jane came to me, as blushin' as a rose, 
An' asked if I was " willin'that *' — but quick came to a pause ; 
So I, surmisin' the question, quickly answered that I w r as. 

So, instead of losin' Willie, we lost our Mary Jane ; 

But it better be through wedlock than under the wheels of a 

train : 
For he was a smart young feller, straight as an arrow, an' tall ; 
But Jane was fully his ekal, although her figure was small. 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 155 

To-day I saw some swacidlin' clothes that Willie used to wear, 
All washed an' ironed for somethin', an' hangin' on a chair ; 
Bat when I asked about 'em, ray wife looked up so queer, 
That I quickly changed tjie subject, an' didn't interfere. 

But I've told you how our Willie was saved from under the 

train, 
An' how in the end it cost us the loss o* Mary Jane ; 
An' now, to finish the story — at ween just you and I — 
If I'm not grandfather yet, I may be by an' by. 



THE CHILDSEiT. 

DICKENS. 

When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 

And the school for the day is dismissed, 
And the little ones gather around me 

To bid mc " good-night," and be kissed, 
O the little white arms that encircle 

My neck in a tender embrace ! 
the smiles that are halos of heaven, 

Shedding sunshine and love on my face ! 

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood, too loving to last ; 
Of love that my heart will remember 

When it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
Ere the world and its wickedness made mo 

A partner of sorrow and sin — 
When the glory of God was about mc, 

And the glory of gladness within. 

O my heart grows weak as a woman's, 
And the fountain of feeling will flow, 

When I think of the paths steep and stony, 
Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 



156 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, 
Of the temposts of fate blowing wild — 

there's nothing on earth half so holy 
As the innocent heart of a child. 

They are idols of hearts and of households, 

They are angels of God in disguise — 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 

His glory still beams in their eyes — 
Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven. 

They have made me more manly and mild, 
And I know now how Jesus could liken 

The kingdom of God to a child. 

1 seek not a life for the dear ones 
All radiant, as others have done, 

But that life may have just enough shadow 
To temper the glare of the sun, 

I would pray God to guard them from evil, 
But my prayer would bound back to myself 

Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 
But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 
" I have banished the rule and the rod ; 

I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, 

They have taught me the goodness of God. 
My heart is a dungeon of darkness, 

Where I shut them from breaking a rule ; 
My frown is sufficient correction, 

My love is the law of the school, 

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 

To traverse its threshold no more ; 
Ah ! how shall I sigh for the dear ones 

That meet me each morn at the door, 
I shall miss the " good-nights " and the kisses. 

And the gush of their innocent glee, 
The group on the green, and the flowers 

That are brought every morning to me. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 157 

I shall miss tliem at morn and at eve, 

Their song in the school and the street ; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tramp of their delicate feet. 
When the lessons and tasks are all ended, 

And Death says the school is dismissed, 
May the little ones gather around me, 

And bid me " good- night " and be kissed. 



HOW IT HAPPENED. 

How did it happen ? you want to know ? 

Well, old boy, I can hardly tell. 
Off we went o'er the frozen snow ; 

Merrily jingled each silvery bell. 
I was awkward and she was shy. 

Jove ! what a ride we had that night ! 
Trees and houses a-flying by, 

Her cheeks a-glow and her eyes a-light, 

What did I say ? I said 'twas cold ; 

Tucked the robes round her dainty feet, 
WTiile her hair, in the starlight, shone like gold, 

And her laughter echoed so clear and sweet. 
And then we drove around the mill, 

Across the river, above the glen, 
Where the brooklet's voice was hushed and still, 

And I said — that it looked like frost again. 

And somehow I held her hands in mine — 

Only to keep them warm, you know — 
While brighter the starlight seemed to shine, 

And diamonds sparkled upon the snow ; 
And — well, old boy, so it happened then 

I won my love while the night grew old. 
What do you say ? Did it freeze again ? 

Maybe ; but we didn't feel the cold. 



158 TRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 



THE DBESSED TUBXEY, 

One of the parisli sent one morn — 

A farmer kind and able — 
A nice fat turkey, raised ou corn, 

To grace the pastor's table. 

The farmer's lad went with the fowl, 
And thus addressed the pastor : 

" Blame me if I aint tired ! Here is 
A gobbler from my master. " 

The pastor said : " Thou should'st not thus 

Present the fowl to me ; 
Come ! take my chair, and for me ask, 

And I will act for thee." 

The preacher's chair received the boy, 

The fowl the pastor took — 
Went out with it and then came in 

With pleasant smile and look ; 

And to his young pro tern he said : 
" Dear sir, my honored master 

Prcsonts this turkey, and his best 
Respects to you, his pastor/' 

" Good ! ,f said the boy ; " your master is 

A gentleman and scholar ! 
My thanks to him, and for yourself, 

Here is a half a dollar!" 

The pastor felt around his mouth 

A most peculiar twitching ; 
And. to the gobbler holding fast, 

He " bolted" fur the kitchen. 

He gave the turkey to the cook, 

And came back in a minute, 
Then took the youngster's hand and left 

A half a dollar in it. 



PKESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 159 



BEOWS MISTAKE, 

Not many years ago there was a man, 

His name I'll now call "Brown," 
"Who owned a little scrubby farm, 

A few miles out of town. 
He used to have an old white horse, 

A harness and a gig, 
He also had a big white cow, 

Some chickens and a pig. 

His wife, she sometimes did the chores 

When he was gone away, 
Would feed the pig, and milk the cow, 

And give the horse some hay ; 
For Brown when he was 'way from home, 

Most always had a spree, 
And when he did come home at night, 

Was drunk as he could be. 

It happened once when Erown was ofi 

Upon a jolly lark, 
His wife, she had to do the chores, 

Alone, and in the dark. 
She thought perhaps ere morn 'twould rain, 

It was such cloudy weather, 
And so she put both horse and cow, 

Into the pen together. 

Now Brown, when he came home that night, 

Was rather drunk, of course ; 
A strange freak, too, came in his head — 

He'd harness up his horse, 
So down the road he staggered then, 

And cursed fcr want of light, 
But when he reached the barn he found 

His things were there all right. 






160 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Then, after fussing quite a spell, 

He got hitched up his rig, 
And picking up the whip and reins 

He jumped into the gig. 
" Get up, you lazy, old white nag ! 

Go on, you beast," he cried ; 
"Though dark the night, what do I care? 

I'm bound to have a ride ! " 

But no ! the old beast would not go ; 

All the coaxing was in vain, 
Then Brown commenced to curse and swear 

And jerk upon the rein. 
His wife, she heard him from the house, 

And wondered what could be, 
So down she came in breathless haste, 

With lantern lit to see. 

" Why, Brown," she cried, " what does this mean? 

You're horrid drunk to-night." 
Then going closer up to him, 

She held aloft the light. 
But back she fell with sudden fear — 

The sight was strange, I vow ; 
For he had not hitched up his horse, 

But harnessed up his cow. 



BTJDD'S OHEISTMAS STOCKING. 

It was Christmas- time, as all the world knew ; 
It stormed without, and the cold wind blew, 
But within all was cheerful, snug, and bright, 
With glowing fires and many a light. 

Budd B. was sent quite early to bed, 

His stocking was hung up close to his head, 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. Jfll 

And lie said to himself, " When all grows still 
I will find a big stocking for Santy to fill." 

Now, good, honest Hans, who worked at the house, 
Had gone to his bed as still as a mouse ; 
The room where he slept was one story higher 
Than Budd's little room, with gaslight and fire. 

Now, Hans loved " the poy," and petted him too, 
And often at night, when his task was all through, 
He would tell him strange stories of over the sea, 
While Budd listened gravely or laughed out in glee. 

This night Hans had promised to wake Budd at four ; 
He would come softly down and open his door ; 
But suddenly Budd bounded out of his bed, 
And stole softly up to the room overhead. 

On his hands and his knees he crept softly in ; 

tl I'll borrow Hans' stocking," he said, with a grin ; 

" Old Santy will fill it up to the top, 

And Hans — oh, such fun !— will be mad as a hop." 

He moved very slowly, and felt near the bed ; 
No stocking was there, but down on his head 
Came a deluge of water, well sprinkled with ice, 
While honest Hans held him as if in a vice. 

" Vat ish dat ? " he cried out ; " von robber I find, 
Den I pound him, and shake him, so much as I mind." 
" It's me," called out Budd ; " stop, Hans ! oh, please do ; 
I am only a boy ; I could not rob you." 

But Hans did not pause — his temper was hot — 
And he dragged the youug robber at once from the spot, 
When he reached the light hall great was his surprise 
To find his young master with tears in his eyes. 



162 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

11 1 wanted your stocking," muttered Budd B. ; 
" It is bigger than mine ; boo hoo ! I can't see, 
And I'm all wet and cold," thus Budd cried aloud, 
Until guests and Ms parents ran up in a crowd. 

He was wrapped up with care and taken to bed, 
But, strangest of all, not a harsh word was said. 
He flattered himself as he fell fast asleep, 
That Hans and his friends the secret would keep. 

Next morning when Christmas songs filled all the air, 
Budd found, to his grief and boyish despair, 
That his neck was so stiff he could not turn his head, 
And must spend the whole day alone in his bed. 

What was worse, his own stocking hung limp on a chair, 
And on it these words in writing most fair : 
" To him iclw is greedy I leave less than all ; 
The world is so large and my reindeer so small. 

" My pack is elastic when children are hind, 
But it shuts with a snap and leaves nothing behind 
When a boy or a girl is selfish or mean. 
Good-by t little Budd, lam off with my team. 

(Signed) " Santa Clans" 



THE OLD PARSOFS STOEY. 

They say I am old an' forgitful, 

My style ez as slow ez a snail, 
My doctrines are all out o' fashion, 

My mind is beginnin' to fail ; 
They want a more flowery preacher, 

More full o' f urgiveness and love, 
To talk to 'em less about brimstone 

An' more o' the mansions above. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 163 

Fur fifty long rears I've been preachin', 

I've studied my old Bible well, 
I alwus liev felt it my duty 

To show 'em the horrors o' hell. 
Perhaps I've been wrong in my notions, 

I've follered the Scriptures, I know, 
An' never hev knowin'ly broken 

The vows that I took long ago. 

I've seen many trials an' changes ; 

I've fit a good fight against wrong ; 
The gals hev grown up to be wimmin, 

The boys hev got manly an' strong. 
The honest old deacons hev vanished, 

Their pure lives hev come to a close ; 
They sleep in the silent old church -yard, 

Where soon I shall lie in repose. 

My flock hez been alwus complainin', 

The church wuz not rightly arranged, 
They voted to hev a high steeple ; 

The gallery hed to be changed. 
They built up a fanciful vestry, 

They bought the best organ in town ; 
They chopped the old pews into kindlin's, 

An' tumbled the tall pulpit down. 

And now, to my pain an' mj sorrer, 

They say " the old parson must go," 
I know I am childish an' feeble, 

My steps are ujistidy an' slow ; 
They want a more spirited speaker, 

A high-steppin' college train'd scholar ; 
To wake up the souls that are dead, 

An' dance round the platform an' holler, 

I'll try to believe that what happens 

Will alwus come out for the best. 
They tell me my labor is ended, 

9 Tis time I wus taking a rest 



164 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

I've leetle o' comfort or riches, 
(I'm sartin my conscience is clear), 

An' when in the church -yard I'm sleepin', 
Perhaps they may wish I was here. 



GBANDMOTHEB' S SERMOXT. 

ELLEN A. JEWETT. 

The supper is over, the hearth is swept, 

And in the wood fire's glow 
The children cluster to hear a tale 

Of that time, so long ago, 

When grandmamma's hair was golden brown, 

And the warm blood came and went 
O'er the face that could scarce have been sweeter then 

Than now in its rich content. 

The face is wrinkled and careworn now, 

And the golden hair is gray ; 
But the light that shone in the young girl's eyes 

Never has gone away. 

And her needles catch the fire's light 

As in and out they go, 
With the clicking music that grandma loves, 

Shaping the stocking toe. 

And the waiting children love it too, 

For they know the stocking song 
Brings many a tale to grandma's mind, 

Which they shall hear ere long. 

But it brings no story of olden time 

To grandma's heart to-night ; 
Only a refrain quaint and short, 

Is sung by the needles bright. 



vrescott's drawing-room recitations. 165 

* Life is a stocking, " grandma says, 

" And yours is just begun ; 
But I am knitting the toe of mine, 

And my work is almost done. 

With merry hearts we begin to knit, 

And the ribbing is almost play ; 
Some are gray-colored and some are white, 

And some are ashen gray. 

But most are made of many a hue, 

With many a stitch set wrong, 
And many a row to be sadly ripped 

Ere the whole is fair and strong. 

There are long, plain faces, without a break, 

That in youth is hard to bear, 
And many a weary tear is dropped 

As we fashion the heel with care. 

But the saddest, happiest time is that 

We court, and yet would shun, 
When our Heavenly Father breaks the thread 

And says our work is done. 

The children come to say good-night, 

With tears in their bright young eyes, 
While in grandma's lap, with broken thread, 

The finished stocking lies. 



CHICAGO. 

WHITTIER. 



Men said at vespers : * ■ All is well ! " 
In one wild night the city fell ; 
Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain 
Before the fiery hurricane. 






1G6 prescott's drawing room recitations. 

On threescore spires had sunset shone, 
Where ghastly sunrise looked on none. 
Men clasped each other's hands, and said, 
" The City of the West is dead ! " 



Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat, 

The fiends of fire from street to street, 

Turned powerless to the blinding glare, 

The dumb defiance of despair. 

A sudden impulse thrilled each wire 

That signals round that sea of fire ; 

Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came ; 

In tears of pity died the flame. 

From East, from West, from South and North, 

The messages of hope shot forth, 

And underneath the severing wave 

The world, full-handed, reached to save. 

Fair seemed the old, but fairer still 

The new, the dreary void shall fill 

With dearer homes than those o'erthrown, 

For love shall lay each corner-stone. 

Rise, stricken city 1 From thee throw 
The ashen sackcloths of thy woe ; 
And build, as to Amphion's strain, 
To songs of cheer, thy walls again ! 
How shriveled in thy hot distress 
The primal sin of selfishness ! 
How instant rose, to take thy part, 
The angel in the human heart ! 

Ah ! not in vain the flames that tossed 
Above thy dreadful holocaust ; 
The Christ again has preached through thee 
The Gospel of humanity ! 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 167 

Then lift once more thy towers on high, 
And fret with spires the western sky, 
To tell that God is yet with us, 
And love is still miraculous ! 



" COALS OP PIKE." 

The coffin was a plain one — no flowers on its top, no lining 
of rose-white satin for the pale brow, no smooth ribbons about 
the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid decently back, 
but there was no crimped cap, with its neat tie beneath the 
chin. " I want to see my mother," sobbed a poor child, as the 
city undertaker screwed down the top. " You can't : get out 
of the way, boy ! Why don't somebody take the brat away ? " 
" Only let me see her one minute," cried the hapless orphan, 
clutching the side of the charity box. And as he gazed into 
that rough face tears streamed down the cheek on which no 
childish bloom ever lingered. Oh, it was pitiful to hear him 
cry, " Only once ! let me see my mother only once ! " Brutally 
the hard-hearted monster struck the boy away, so that he 
reeled with the blow. For a moment the boy stood panting 
with grief and rage, his blue eyes expanded, his lips sprang 
apart ; a fire glittered through his tears as he raised his puny 
arm, and with a most unchildish accent screamed, " When I 
am a man I'll kill you for that ! " A coffin and a heap of earth 
was between the mother and the poor forsaken child ; a monu- 
ment stronger than granite built in his boy-heart to the 
memory of a heartless deed. 

****** * * 

The court house was crowded to suffocation. " Does any 
one appear as this man's counsel ?" asked the judge. There 
was silence when he finished, until, w r ith lips tightly pressed 
together, a look of strange recognition blended with haughty 
reserve upon his handsome features, a young man, a stranger, 
stepped forward to plead for the erring and the friendless. 
The splendor of his genius entranced, convinced. The man 



168 prescott's drawing-room recitations. ' 

who could not find a friend was acquitted. " May God bless 
you, sir ! I cannot." " I want no thanks," replied the stranger, 
with icy coldness. "I — I believe you are unknown to me." 
" Man, I will refresh your memory. Twenty years ago you 
, struck a broken-hearted boy away from his poor mother's 
coffin ; I was that poor, miserable boy." " Have you rescued 
me, then, to take my life ? " " No ! I have a sweeter revenge : I 
have saved the life of a man whose brutal deed has rankled in 
my breast for twenty years. Go, and remember the tears of a 
friendless child." 



THE CHANGED CKOSS. 

It was a time of sadness ; and my heart, 
Although it knew and loved the better part, 
Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, 
And all the needful discipline of life. 

And while I thought on these as given to me — 
My trial tests of faith and love to be — 
It seemed as if I never could be sure 
That faithful to-the end I should endure. 

And thus no longer trusting to His might, 
Who says " we walk by faith, and not by sight/' 
Doubting, and almost yielding to despair, 
The thought arose, My cross I cannot bear. 

Far heavier its weight must surely be 
Than those of others which I daily see ; 
Oh ! if I might another burden choose, 
Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose. 

A solemn silence reigned on all around — 
E'en nature uttered not a sound ; 
The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, 
And sleep upon my weared spirit fell. 



*>rescott's drawing-room recitations. 169 

A moment's pause, and then a heavenly light 
Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight ; 
Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere, 
And angels' music filled the balmy air. 

The One more fair than all the rest to see — 
One to whom all the others bowed the knee — 
Came gently to me as I trembling lay, 
And " Follow me," he said, " I am the Way." 

Then speaking thus, he led me far above ; 
And there, beneath a canopy of love, 
Crosses of divers shape and size were seen, 
Larger and smaller than my own had been. 

And one there was most beauteous to behold — 
A little one, with jewels set in gold. 
"Ah ! this,"methought, " I can with comfort wear, 
For it will be an easy one to bear." 

And so the little cross I quickly took, 
But all at once my frame beneath it shook ; 
The sparkling jewels — fair were they to see, 
But far too heavy was their weight for me. 

" This may not be," I cried, and looked again 
To see if any here could ease my pain ; 
But one by one I passed them slowly by 
Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. 

Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, 
And grace and beauty seemed in it combined ; 
Wondering, I gazed, and still I wondered more 
To think so many should have passed it o'er. 

But, oh ! that form so beautiful to see, 
Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me. 
Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair ; 
Sorrowing I said, f< This cross I may not bear." 



170 Jprescott's drawing room recitations. 

And so it was with each and all around — 
Not one to suit my need could there be found ; 
Weeping I laid each heavy burden down, 
As my guide gently said, " No cross, no crown/' 

At length to him I raised my saddened heart ; 
He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart. 
" Be not afraid," he said, " but trust in me : 
My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." 

And then, with lightening eyes and willing feet, 
Again I turned, my earthly cross to meet ; 
With forward footsteps, turning not aside, 
For fear some hidden evil might betide. 

And there, in the prepared, appointed way — 
Listening to hear, and ready to obey — 
A cross I quickly found of plainest form, 
With only words of love inscribed thereon. 

With thankfulness I raised it from the rest, 
And joyfully acknowledged it the best, 
The only one of all the many there 
That I could feel was good for me to bear. 

And while I thus my chosen one confessed, 
I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest ; 
And as I bent, my burden to sustain, 
I recognized my own old cross again. 

But oh ! how different it seemed to be, 
Now I had learned its preciousness to see ! 
No longer could I unbelieving say, 
" Perhaps another is a better way. " 

Ah, no ! henceforth my own desire shall be, 
That He who knows me best should choose for me ; 
And so, whate'er his love sees good to send, 
I'll trust it's best, because he knows the end. 



prescott's Drawing-room recitations. 171 

LITTLE NELLIE'S VISIT FEOM SANTA GLAUS. 

MRS. C. E. WILBUR. 

" Santa Claus is coming to-night, papa ; 
Please let me sit up and see him, mamma ; 
Loaded with presents I'm sure he'll be, 
He'll have something nice for you and for me. 

" Mamma, do find something fresh and quite new, 
For dear old Santa Claus when he comes through, 
I'll give it myself ; I'll keep wide awake ; 
I know he'll be glad my present to take. 

" Now, all go to bed as quick as you please, 
I'll wait for him," said the bright little tease ; 
" He surely will ring, no doubt about that, 
I'll bid him come in and then have a chat." 

Soon came a quick step on the piazza floor, 
Just then a loud ring was heard at the door ; 
The little miss rose with dignified air, 
Quick ushered him in and set him a chair. 

All covered o'er with little bells tinkling, 
Shaking and laughing, twisting and wrinkling, 
A funny old man, with little eyes blinking, 
Looking at Nellie, what was he thinking ? 

Not a word did he say — tired of waiting, 
Nellie arose, her little heart quaking, 
Held out her present, courage most failing, 
<; Santa Claus, take this " — now she is smiling. 

His furry old hand, twisting and trembling, 
Took the sweet gift — " You dear little darling," 
Uttered quite softly, tenderly kissing 
The bright little face, ne'er a bit shrinking. 



172 rRESCOTT'S DRA WING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Lots of nice presents quickly bestowing, 
Thanking her kindly — he must be going, 
Shaking and laughing, his little bells jingling, 
Down the steps hastening off in a twinkling. 

Brave little lady ! all are now saying, 
Santa Claus truly ? bright eyes are asking ; 
See her dear papa, secretly laughing 
At her true faith in Santa Claus* coming. 

Yes ! she believes it, ever so truly, 
Dear precious darling ! Rob her not surely 
Of childhood's sweet faith, now in its glory, 
While she's relating her own simple story 
Christmas Morn. 



THE OWL-A BOY'S COMPOSITION. 

Wen you come to see a owl cloce it has offle big eyes, and 
wen you come to feel it with your fingers, wich it bites, you 
find it is mosely f ethers, with only jus meat enuff to hole 'em 
to gether. 

Once they was a man thot he would like a owl for a pet, so 
he tole a bird man to send him the bes one in the shop, but 
wen it was brot, he lookt at it and squeezed it, and it diddent 
sute. So the man he rote to the bird man and said He keep 
the owl you sent, tho it aint like I wanted, but when it is wore 
out you must make me a other, with littler eyes, for I spose 
these eyes is number twelves, but I want number sixes, and 
then if I pay you the same price you can aford to put in more 
owl. 

Owls has got to have big eyes cos tha has to be out a good 
deal at nite a doin bisnis with rats and mice, wich keeps late 
ours. They is said to be very wise, but my sisters young man 
he says any boddy could be wise if they woud set up nites to 
take notice. 

That feller comes to our house jest like he used to, only 



FRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 173 

more, and wen I ast him wy he come so much he said he was a 
man of sience, like me, and was a study in arnithogaly, wich 
was birds. I ast him wot birds he was a study in, and he said 
anjils, and when he said that my sister she lookt out the win- 
der and said what a fine day it had turned out to be. But' it 
was a rainin cats and dogs wen she said it. I never see such a 
goose in my life as that girl, but Uncle Ned, wich has been in 
ol parts of the worl, he says they is jes that way in Pattygony. 
In the picter alphabets the is sometimes a owl, and some 
times it is a ox, but if I made the picters Ide have it stan for a 
oggur to bore holes with. I tole that to ole gaffer Peters once 
wen he was to our house lookin at my new book, and he said 
you is right, Johnny, and here is this H stans for harp, but 
hoo cares for a harp, wy dont they make it stan for a horgan ? 
He is such a ole fool. 



ONE DAT NEAKEE HOME. 

T. M. HANCOCK. 

I'm one day nearer my home to-night, 

Nearer than ever before ; 
One day nearer the fields of light, 

Away on the '* other shore." 
I'm one day nearer to wearing my crown, 

Nearer than ever before ; 
Nearer to laying my burdens down, 

Safe on the " evergreen shore." 

I'm one day nearer the " pearly gates," 

Which the angels left ajar ; 
In the golden city a harp awaits 

My coming from afar. 
I'm one day nearer my " Father's house," 

Where the shining angels be ; 
I'm one day nearer the great white throne, 

And the beautiful crystal sea. 



174 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

I'm one day nearer the shining host 

On the fadeless, golden shore ; 
They cross the mystic stream of death, 

And will come to us no more. 
Yet I listen— I wait for a " phantom barge/ 1 

To bear me to their side ; 
I watch for the " boatman's " noiseless oar 

To sweep the silvery tide. 

The " boatman " pale will come for me, 

And grasp my wasted hand ; 
Together we'll cross the unknown se&, 

This side of the golden strand. 
And when we reach the " other shore," 

I shall meet the angel band, 
Who shall wait to deck my youthful brow 

With flowers of the " fadeless land." 



HOW TO CURE A COLD. 

-MARK TWAIN. 

The first time that I began to sneeze, a friend told me to go 
and bathe my feet in hot water, and go to bed. I did so. Short- 
ly after, a friend told me to get up and take a cold shower bath. 
I did that also. Within the hour another friend told me it was 
policy to feed a cold and starve a fever. I had both ; so I 
thought it best to fill up for the cold, and let the fever starve a 
while ; in a case of this kind I 'seldom do things by halves ; I 
ate pretty heartily. I conferred my custom upon a stranger 
who had just opened a restaurant on Cortlandt street, near the 
hotel, that morning, paying him so much for a full meal. He 
waited near me in respectful silence until I had finished feeding 
my cold, when he inquired whether people about New York 
were much afflicted with colds. I told him I thought they 
were. He then went out and took in his sign. I started up to- 
ward the office, and on the way encountered another bosom 



frescott's drawing-room recitations. 175 

friend, who told me that a quart of warm salt water would come 
as near curing a cold as anything in the world. I hardly 
thought I had room for it, but I tried it anyhow. The result 
was surprising. I believe I threw up my immortal soul. Now, 
as I give my experience only for the benefit of those of your 
friends who are troubled with this distemper, I feel that they 
will see the propriety of my cautioning them against following 
such portions of it as proved inefficient with me ; and acting 
upon this conviction I warn them against warm salt water. It 
may be a good enough remedy, but I think it is rather too se- 
vere. If I had another cold in the head, and there was no course 
left me — to take either an earthquake or a quart of warm salt 
water, I would take my chances on the earthquake. After this 
everybody in the hotel became interested ; and I took all sorts 
of remedies — hot lemonade, cold lemonade, pepper-tea, boneset, 
stewed Quaker, hoarhound syrup, onions and loaf sugar, lemons 
and brown sugar, vinegar and laudanum, live bottles fir balsam, 
eight bottles cherry pectoral, and ten bottles of Uncle Sam's 
remedy, but all without effect. One of the prescriptions given 
by an old lady was — well, it- was dreadful. She mixed a decoc- 
tion composed of molasses, catnip, peppermint, aquafortis, tur- 
pentine, kerosene, and various other drugs, and instructed me to 
take a wiueglassf ul of it every fifteen minutes. I never took 
but one dose ; that was enough. I had to take to my bed, and 
remain there for two entire days. When I felt a little better, 
more things were recommended. I was desperate, and willing 
to take anything. Plain gin was recommended, and then gin 
and molasses, then gin and onions. I took all three. I detected 
no particular result, however, except that I had acquired a 
breath like a turkey-buzzard, and had to change my boarding 
place. I had never refused a remedy yet, and it seemed poor 
policy to commence then ; therefore I determined to take a 
sheet-bath, though I had no idea what sort of an arrangement 
it was. It was administered at midnight, and the weather was 
very frosty. My back and breast were stripped ; and a sheet 
(there appeared to be a thousand yards of it) soaked in ice- water 
was wound around me until I resembled a swab for a columbiad. 
It is a cruel experiment. When the chilly rag touches one's 



176 frescott's drawing-room recitations. 

warm flesh, it makes him start with a sudden violence, and gasp 
for breath, just as men do in the death-agony. It froze the 
marrow in my bones, and stopped the beating of my heart. I 
thought my time had come. When I recovered from this, a 
friend ordered the application of a mustard plasffer to my breast. 
I believe that would have cured me effectually, if it had not 
been for young Clemens. When I went to bed, I put the mus- 
tard plaster where I could reach it when I should be ready for 
it. But young Clemens got hungry in the night and ate it up. 
I never saw any child have such an appetite. I am confident 
that he would have eaten me if I had been healthy. 



THE VILLAGE SEWING SOCIETY. 

" Mis' Jones is late agen to-day ; 

I'd be ashanieci now ef 'twas me. 
Don't tell it, but I've heerd folks say 

She only comes to git her tea." 

" Law me ! she needn't want it here. 

The deacon's folks ain't much on eatin'; 
They haven't made a pie this year ! 

Of course, 't wont do to be repeatin* ; 

"But old Mis' Jenkins says it's true 
(You know she lives just 'cross the way, 

And sees most everything they do). 
She says she saw 'em t'other day — 

" Hush, here comes Hannah ! How d'ye do ? 

Why, what a pretty dress you've got ! 
(Her old merino made up new ; 

1 know it by that faded spot. ") 

" Just look ! there's Dr. Stebbins' wife "— 
"A bran-new dress and bunnit ! — well — 

They say she leads him such a life 1 
But, there, I promised not to tell. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 177 

" What's that, Mis' Brown ? ' All friends/ of course ; 

And you can see witli your own eyes, 
That that gray mare's the better horse, 

Though gossipin' I do despise." 

"Poor Mary Allen's lost her beau" — 

" It serves her right, conceited thing ! 
She's flirted awfully, I know. 

Say, have you heard she kept his ring ? " 

11 Listen ! the clock is striking six. 

Thank goodness, then it's time for tea." 
" Now ain't that too much ! Abby Mix 

Has folded up her work ! Just see ! " 

" Why can't she wait until she's told? 

Yes, thank you, deacon, here we corned" 
("I hope the biscuits won't be cold. 

No coffee ? Wish I was to hum ! ") 

" Do tell, Mis' Ellis ! Did you make 

This cheese ? the best I ever saw. 
Such jumbles, too, (no jelly cake); 

I'm quite ashamed to take one more." 

" Good-bye ; we've had a first-rate time, 

And first-rate tea, I must declare. 
Mis' Ellis things are always prime. 

(" Well, next week's ineetin' won't be there! ") 



"THE PENNY YE MEANT TO GI'E." 

There's a funny tale of a stingy man, 

Who was none too good, but might have been worse, 
Who went to his church on a Sunday night. 
And carried along his well-filled purse. 






178 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

When the sexton came with his begging-plate, 
The church was but dim with the candle's light, 

The stingy man fumbled all through his purse, 
And chose a coin by touch and not sight. 

"It's an odd thing now that guineas should be 
So like unto pennies in shape and size. 

" I'll give a penny/' the stingy man said ; 
" The poor must not gifts of pennies despise/' 

The penny fell down with a clatter and ring ! 

And back in his seat leaned the stingy man. 
" The world is so full of the poor," he thought, 

" I can't help them all — I give what I can." 

Ila, ha ! how the sexton smiled, to be sure, 
To see the gol(t guinea fall in his plate ! 

Ha, ha ! how the stingy man's heart was wrung, 
Perceiving his blunder, but just too late ! 

" No matter," he said : "in the Lord's account 
That guinea of gold is set down to me. 

They lend to him who give to the poor ; 
It will not so bad an investment be. " 

" No, na, mon," the chuckling sexton cried out ; 

" The Lord is na cheated — he kens thee well. 
He knew it w T as only by accident 

That out o' thy fingers the guinea fell ! 

" He keeps an account, no doubt, for the puir ; 

But in that account, he'll set down to thee 
Na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon, 

Than the one bare penny ye meant to gi'e I " 

There's a comfort, too, in the little tale — 

A serious side as well as a joke ; 
A comfort for all the generous poor, 

In the comical words the sexton spoke ; 



frescott's drawing-room recitations. 179 

A comfort to tliink that the good Lord knows 

How generous we really desire to be ; 
And will give us credit in his account 

For all the pennies we long " to gie." 



THE VALUE OP TIME 

FREEMAN HUNT. 

A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. 
A curve was just ahead, beyond which was a station, at which 
the cars usually passed each other. The conductor was late, 
so late that the period during which the down train was to 
wait had nearly elapsed ; but he hoped yet to pass the curve 
safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. 
In an instant there was a collision. A' shriek, a shock, and 
fifty souls were in eternity ! and all because an engineer had 
been behind time. 

A great battle was going on. Column after column had 
been precipitated for eight mortal hours on the enemy posted 
along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking to the 
west ; reinforcements for the obstinate defenders were already 
in sight ; it was necessany to carry the position with one final 
charge, or everything would be lost, A powerful corps had 
been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in 
season all would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident 
in its arrival, formed his reserve into an attacking column and 
ordered them to charge the enemy. The whole world knows 
the result. Grouchy failed to appear ; the imperial guard was 
beaten back ; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at 
St. Helena, because one of his marshals was behind time. 

A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled 
against bankruptcy. As it had enormous assets in California, 
it expected remittances by a certain day ; and, if the sums 
promised arrived, its credit, its honor, and its future prosperity 
would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without 



180 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

bringing the goid. At last came the fatal day on which the 
firm had bills maturing to enormous amounts. The steamer 
was telegraphed at daybreak ; but it was found, on inquiry, 
that she brought no funds, and the house failed. The next 
arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents, but it 
was too late ; they were ruined because their agent, in remit- 
ting, had been behind time. 

A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken 
human life, but under circumstances of the greatest provoca- 
tion, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thous- 
ands had signed a petition for a reprieve ; a favorable answer 
had been expected the night before ; and, though it had not 
come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in 
season. Thus the morning passed without the appearance of 
the messenger. The last moment was up. The prisoner took 
his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the 
bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the 
wind. Just at that moment a horseman came in sight, gallop- 
ing down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a 
packet in his right hand, which he waved rapidly to the crowd. 
He was the express rider with the reprieve. But he had come 
too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignomin- 
ous death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, 
making its bearer arrive behind time. 

It is continuously so in life. The best laid plans, the most 
important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of na- 
tions, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because 
somebody is "behimd time." There are men who always fail 
in whatever they undertake, simply because they are " behind 
time." There are others who put off reformation year by year, 
till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because 
forever " behind time." 

Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little 
period, yet it has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. 
If there is one virtue that should be cultivated more than 
another by him who would succeed in life, it is punctuality ; 
if there is one error that should be avoided, it is being behind 
time. 



frescott's drawing-room recitations. 181 

POBTITUDE MOEE THAN BEAVEEY. 

MRS. HEMANS. 

If to plunge ^ 

On the midwaves of combat, as they bear 
Chargers and spearmen onwards ; and to make 
A reckless bosom's front the bouyant mark 
On that wild current for ten thousand arrows ; 
If thus to dare were valor's noblest aim, 
Lightly might fame be won ! But there are things 
Which ask a spirit of more exalted pitch, 
And courage tempered with a holier fire ! 
Well may'st thou say that these are fearful times, 
Therefore be firm, be patient ! — There is strength, 
And a fierce instinct, e'en in common souls, 
To bear up manhood with a stormy joy, 
When red swords meet in lightning. But our task 
Is more and nobler ! We have to endure, 
And to keep watch, and to arouse a land, 
And to defend an altar 1 If we fall, 
So that our blood make but the millionth part 
Of Spain's great ransom, we may count it joy 
To die upon her bosom, and beneath 
The banner of her faith ! Think but of this, 
And gird your hearts with silent fortitude, 
Suffering, yet hoping all things — Fare ye well ! 



HUNTING A MOUSE. 

JOSHUA JENKINS. 

I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of 
the good times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon 
my ears a most startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria 
Ann in agony The voice came from the kitchen, and to the 



183 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 

kitchen I rushed. The idolized form of my Maria was perched 
on a chair, and she was nourishing an iron spoon in all directions 
and shouting " shoo," in a general manner, at everything in the 
room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the matter, she 
screamed, " O Joshua ! a mouse, shoo — wha — shoo — a great — ya 
shoo — horrid mouse, and — she — ew — it ran right out of the cup- 
board — shoo — go way — O Lord — Joshua— shoo— kill it, oh, my 
—shoo." 

All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some 
women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and 
set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down and 
ran off into another room. I found the mouse in a corner under 
the sink. The first time I hit it I didn't poke it any on account 
of getting the poker all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink ; 
and I did not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay 
still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as any- 
body would ; but I am not afraid of mice, and when the horrid 
thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, I yelled to Maria 
because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my garment. 
There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse in- 
side the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing 
between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are 
scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there 
is nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it 
will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. 
That mouse was next to me. I could feel its every motion w r ith 
startling and suggestive distinctness. For these reasons I yelled 
to Maria, and as the case seemed urgent to me I may have yell, 
ed with a certain degree of vigor ; but I deny that I yelled fire, 
and if I catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict 
punishment on his person. 

I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant I caught 
the mouse just as it was clambering over my knee, and by press- 
ing firmly on the outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a pris- 
oner on the inside. I kept jumping around with all my might 
to confuse it, so that it would not think about biting, and I 
yelled so that the mice would not hear its squeaks and come to 



phescott's drawing-room recitations. 183 

Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen 
and asked what she should do — as though I could hold the 
mouse and plan a campaign at the same time. I told her to 
think of something, and she thought she would throw things at 
the intruder ; but as there was no earthly chance for her to hit 
the mouse, while every shot took effect on me, I told her to stop, 
after she had tried two flat-irons and the coal-scuttle. She 
paused for breath ; but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt 
no inclination to sit down anywhere. "O Joshua," she cried, 
"J wish you had not killed the cat." Now I submit that the 
wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on 
earth did she suppose a cat could get where that mouse was ? — 
rather hav r e the mouse there alone, anyway, than to have a cat 
prowling around after it. I reminded Maria of the fact that she 
was a fool. Then she got the tea-kettle and wanted to scald the 
mouse. I objected to that process, except as a last resort. Then 
she got some cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare 
to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters were getting des- 
perate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept jump- 
ing. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped 
over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very 
dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy. 

That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recov- 
ered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, 
and a whole company followed him through, and they dragged 
hose around, and mussed things all over the house, and then 
the foreman wanted to thrash me because the house was not on 
fire, and I had hardly got him pacified before a policeman came 
in and arrested me. Some one had run down and told him I 
was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could 
do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching 
me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the 
house clear. 

Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and 
let Maria "shoo " them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the 
fun don't pay for the trouble. 



184 prescott's drawing -room recitations. 



HEE PIEST OPPEE. • 

Hardly a ripple to stir the stream 

As the swans go sailing by ; 
The beautiful day has the peace of a dream 

Under the Summer sky : 
Sweet from the distance the new-mown hay 
Wafts while the moments glide away, 

Waiteth the maiden with look demure, 
And the glow of a blush on her cheek ; 

Of her heart's desire scarcely sure, 
What word shall the pure lips speak ? 

With eyes down dropped to the velvet grass, 

She sees in a vision her bright years pass. 

'Tis a lover's letter the father reads : 

Did you know of it eyes of blue ? 
Deep in your heart is there aught that pleads 

For the suitor who asks for you ? 
Are the times gone by when the dove can rest 
With a folded wing in the parent nest ? 

O sweet is the waft of the new-mown hay, 

And low the lisp on, the shore 
Of the waves that kiss though they can not stay, 

But must seek their own once more. 
And the father feels with a jealous pain, 
That the Prince is coming with all his train. ) 

Was it yesterday that her little feet 

Were flying over the fields ? 
Oh, yesterdays, they are fair and fleet, 

But they weave a spell that yields 
Soon or late to the potent sway 
Of the strong magician we name to-day. 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 185 

And whether the word be aye or no* 

That the maiden's heart shall send, 
She has found that Eden roses blow 

At the childish Eden's end ; 
And her mantling blushes are love's brevet, 
The sign of a day she will not forget. 



GOD PBOVIDETH FOB THE MOBBOW. 

REGINALD HEBER. 

Lo, the lilies of the field, 
How their leaves instruction yield ! # 
Hark to nature's lesson given 
By the blessed birds of heaven ! 
Every bush and tufted tree 
Warbles sweet philosophy — 
Mortal, flee from doubt and sorrow, 
God provideth for the morrow ! 

Say, with richer crimson glows 
The kingly mantle than the rose ? 
Say, have kings more wholesome fare 
Than we poor citizens of air ? 
Barns nor hoarded grain have we, 
Fet we carol merrily — 
Mortal, flee from doubt and sorrow ; 
God provideth for the morrow ! 

One there lives whose guardian eye 
Guides our humble destiny : 
One there lives, who, lord of all, 
Keeps our feathers lest they fall : 
Pass we blithely, then, the time, 
Fearless of the snare and lime, 
Free from doubt and faithless sorrow ; 
God provideth for the morrow ! 



186 prescott's drawing-room recitations. 



THE VOICE OP THE GEASS. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 

By the dusty road-side, 

On the sunny hill-side, 

Close by the noisy brook, 

In every shady nook, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere. 

All round the open door, 

Where sit the aged poor, 
m Here where the children play, 

In the bright and merry May, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere, 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere 

In the noisy city street, 

My pleasant face you'll meet, 

Cheering the sick at heart, 

Toiling his busy part, 
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
* You cannot see me coming, 

Nor hear my low sweet humming ; 
For in the starry night, 
And the glad morning light, 

I come quietly creeping everywhere ; 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
More welcome than the flowers, 
In summer's pleasant, hours ; 
The gentle cow is glad 
And the merry bird not sad 

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 187 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 

When you're numbered with the dead, 

In your still and narrow bed, 

In the happy Spring I'll come 

And deck your silent home, 
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 

My humble song of praise 

Most gratefully I raise 

To Him at whose command 

I beautify the land, 
Creeping, silently creeping every where, 



HELD TLOWEKS, 

THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

Ye field flowers ! the gardens eclipse you His true, 
Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon you, 

For ye waft me to summers of old, 
When the earth teem'd around me with fairy delight, 
And when daisies and buttercups gladden'd my sight, 
Like treasures of silver and gold. 

I love you for lulling me back into dreams 

Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams-* 

And of birchen glades breathing their balm, 
"While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote, 
And the deep mellow crush of the wood pigeon's note, 

Made music that sweeten'd the calm. 

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 

Then ye speak to my heart, little wildings of June : 

Of old ruinous castles ye tell, 
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, 
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind 

And your blossoms were part of her spell. 



188 prescott's drawing-room recitations 

Even now what affections that violet awakes ! 
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, 

Can the wild water lily restore ! 
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, 
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks, 

In the vetches that tangled the shore. 

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, 
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear, 

Had scathed my existence's bloom ; 
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, 
With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 

And I wish you to grow on my tomb. 



"EINDEEZEITNEK" 

TRANSLATED FROM HEINE BY R. E. CLEVELAND. 

My child, we two were children, 

Merry and full of play ; 
We crawled in the little hen-houses, 

And hid ourselves under the hay. 

We clucked around like the chickens, 
And the people out in the road, 

When they heard our cock-a-doodle ! 
Thought a regular rooster crowed. 

The old chest in the woodshed 
We furnished and decked inside ; 

And dwelt in this elegant mansion, 
And were very dignified. 

The neighbors' old grimalkin 

Came over to visit us there ; 
And we bowed and scraped and palavered 

Enough to raise her hair. 



PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATION8. 189 

We inquired after her matters 

With anxious and friendly air ; 
Since then, for many old pussies 

We have shown the self -same care. 

We often sat discreetly 

And lamented, in old-folk phrase, 
How everything so much better 

Had been in our good old days. 

How Faith and Truth and Friendship 

In all the world now were not : 
How much one must pay for coffee, 

How scarce the money had got ! 

Gone are the plays of the children, 

With their mocking wisdom and truth, 

And the World and Days and Money, 
And Love and Faith and Truth. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

E. J. POPE. 

The workman's axe rings loud and long 
Upon the good ship's stately side, 

That soon in perfect form and strong 
Upon the salt sea-waves shall ride. 

Work on, ye workmen ! and with care 
The goodly planks in order place ; 

Of knot, and sap, and splint beware, 
That could in time your work disgrace ; 

And ye shall launch upon the sea 
A noble ship — a stately home 

For gallant souls, whose pride shall be 
The ocean's pathless waste to roam. 



190 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Not for ignoble, selfish ends, 
But human comfort to increase, 

And bearing all that truly tends 
To spread abroad the arts of peace. 

Oh, what a picture is the life 

Within a good ship's wooden walls, 

Of human cares, and of the strife 
That larger social states befalls I 

How well we see the varying parts 
That different members have to play, 

With willing or unwilling hearts, 
In darksome night or cheerful day 1 

There one will governs — stern, supreme ; 

His lightest word a Spartan law, 
In which the boldest would not dream 

To find an error, seek a flaw. 

And there the lowliest has a post 
Important to the common weal : 

The weakest lad may proudly boast— 

" The whole e'en my poor presence feel ! " 

Yet are these labors, though unseen, 
In deed and truth the motive pow'r, 

Without whose force the ship, I ween, 
Could scarcely live another hour. 

Should they rebel and seek the deck, 

And cry — " We would all men should see 

The work we do ! " how soon a wreck 
The gallant vessel then would be I 

Yet are they not as foolish who, 

Rebelling 'gainst the Will supreme, 

Cry out upon the work they do, 

And sigh for glory's phantom gleam ? 



prescott's drawing-room recitations. 191 

Ah, brother ! in this world of ours, 

As in the ship that plows the main, 
Each has his work, and each one's pow'rs, 

In truth put forth are ne'er in vain. 

We may be low, we may be poor, 

And think our toil of no account ; 
But it will tell on earth, be sure, 

And God will reckon its amount. 



HAT-MAKING. 

AUGUSTA MOORE. 



The mower is out with his scythe, 
And beautiful things are falling ; 

Waves and billows of shining grass 

Roll before him. Behold him pass ! 
Daisies and clover and wild rose bloom. 
Herds grass and timothy meet their doom ; 
Buttercups golden, your time is come ; 

The sparrow, this morning so blithe, 
In terror and anguish is calling. 

The mower is out with his scythe, 
And beautiful things are falling ; 

They pour out life to the morning breeze, 

That wafts the fragrance o'er lands and seas, 
While mower to mower is calling, 

Sturdy and busy and blithe. 

All through the summer day, 
All through the moon-lit eve, 
While sparrow and field-mouse grieve, 
The cutting and tossing and stacking toil 
Goes on ; and the odorous heaped-up spoil, 



192 PRESCOTT'S DRAWING-ROOM RECITATIONS. 

Under mid-summer's great white moon. 

Waits all night ; by the next high-noon 
Safe in the barn it is packed away, 
Treasures substantial of well dried hay. 

The mower is out with his scythe, 
And beautiful things are falling ; 
Joys and hopes and affections warm, 
Loves and lives that exhale like balm, 
Beauty and bloom, and in wild alarm, 
We, like the sparrow at morn so blythe, 
In terror and anguish are calling. 

But let the breath of the sweet, new hay 

Teach us a beautiful truth to-day, 

Mown down, withered, and flung and tost, 

No real treasure is ever lost ; 

But underneath the great full moon, 

Or in the summer's burning noon, 

Or in the darkened winter hours, 

Grow ripe and sweet our mown-down flowers. 



*, 



WEBSTER'S RECITER; 

OR, 

ELOCUTION MADE EAST. 

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There are twelve Pieces in this book that require two characters ; 
three that require three ; five that require four ; five that require six ; 
five that require seven : one that requires eight ; two that require nine ; 
one that requires ten ; one that requires eleven ; one that requires fifteen ; 
one that requires sixteen ; one that requires eighteen. 

Excellent opportunities are afforded in most of these pieces to introduc e 
classes, or parts of classes to increase the effect in parts. This, of course, 
renders them particularly suitable for schools or family gatherings. 

This volume has more than 200 finely printed pages, in boards, with a 
handsome cover. Price 50 Cents. 

A remarkably handsome edition, in cloth, gilt lettered. Price 75 
Cents. 

Sent, postage paid, on receipt of price. Address 

DE WITT, Publisher, 

33 Rose Street, New York* 



PRESCOTTS 



PLAIN DIALOGUES 



CONTAINING- 



A Great Number of Superior Dialogues 

upon a Variety of Subjects; all of 

which are of present interest. 



Each of these Dialogues is marked by qualities which renders 
it most appropriate for use in Schools, Lyceums, Academies, 
and Colleges, as well as in Home Parties. 

Well and handsomely bound. 

This is a book of real sterling merit. Not a Dialogue is to 
be found in it, that is not marked by good sense, and occasion- 
ally much harmless humor. Such pieces as are enjoyed any- 
where : equally by Deacons and School Committees, and by 
the young folka at a gay party. 

Price 50 Cents. 



Sent postage paid on receipt of price. Address 

DE WITT, Publisher, 

33 Rose Street, New Yorfc. 



GET THE BEST 2 GET THE BEST ! 



There ia just complaint among teachers and parents who take an interest in 
the culture of youth, because of the very few books that exist containing first 
class Dialogues for two or more speakers. Most of this class of books are 
mere repetitions of books printed scores of years ago ; while others omit all 
old ones, however good, and fill their places with weak, wishy-washy pieces 
merely because they are new. In this series the aim has been to select the 
Best, whether new or old—pieces as fresh as daisies and as bright as stars. 



MACAULAY'S 

DIALOGUES ■ LITTLE FOLKS. 



CONTAINING 



AVERY LARGE NUMBER OF INTERESTING AND SPIRITED DIALOGUES, ON 
VARIOUS SUBJECTS, FOR FROM TWO TO TWENTY CHILDREN. 



Some of these Dialog- ues are illustrations of the Sea- 
sons, Trades, Flowers, etc., and give an opportunity for 
a whole class to join in ; and all of them give ample 
chance for the display of different degrees of natural 
ability and acquired proficiency. They afford faultless 
Parlor Entertainments, delightful to the young and 
pleasing to their friends. 



This book contains 200 pages, bound in boards, with a brilliant, illuminated 
cover. Price , 50 Cents. 

A handsome and durable edition, bound in cloth, elegantly lettered in gilt. 
Price • 7 5 Cents, 

BeF* Copies of the above Book sent to any address in the world, postage paid, 
on receipt of price. Send OmA Orders to 

DE WITT, Publisher, 33 Rose at., N. Y. 
' (Between Duanc and Frankfort sis.) 



FREE ! FREE 

AN IMME 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

021 100 564 6 

KfCKIPTIVE CATALOGUE 

OF 

ill WITTS P8P11UR CHEAP PillMTIOIS, 

INCLUDING 

Books of Wis 1 Adv :nture, Speakers, 

Books on Mt gic, Dialogues, 

Books ol. Granies, Reciters, 

Stories of the Sea, Song Books, 

Stories of City Life, Joke Books, 

De Witt's Dime Romances, Cook Books, 

De Witt's Champion Novels, Letter Writers, 

De Witt's Half Dime Music, Ready Reckoners, 

Do Witt's Acting Plays, Standard Novels, 

De Witt's Ethiopian Plays, Medical Works. 

ALSO, 

AMATEUR ACTORS' GUIDE, 

And all needful .-•• Tories for Amateur ami iVvata theatricals, such as 

Wigs, M /ast aches, Colored Fires, 

Beards, ; i .ibleau Lights, Face Preparations, 

And a thousand other tilings that we Inure not space to mention here, but 
which will be found fully descnbed in the Catalogue and prices given. Maile '. 
free upon application to 

DE WITT, Publisher, 

33 Rose Street, New York. 



Valuable Hand Books of Games, &c. 

ELEMENTS OF DRAUGHTS; or, BEGINNER'S SURE GUIDE. 

( 'obtaining a th > - ru ugh exposh \ t >n o* v : principle ; together with Model 
Barnes Illustrative of the Opening ILustrated with diagrams exhibiting 
critical positio ls. By 1. 1). J. Sweet, Draught Editor of the New York Clip- 
per. In boards, 50 cents ; cloth, gili .. . .. 75 cents. 

CHESS PLAYER'S INSTRUCTORS , or, GUIDE TO BEGINNERS. 
< ! Mitaming all information necessary -o a knowledge of the game ; with 
diagrams of the movements of the pt.eetK By C. H. Stanley, Chess Editor 
of J/arper's Weekly. In boards, 50 ct u ; cloth, gilt 75 cents. 

DE WITT'S AMERICAN CHESS MANUAL. Containing: Full In- 
structions for Young Players. By An Old Chess Player. Also the Ne-v 
Rules of the Game, adopted by the American Chess Association in 1880. ■* 
Taper, Pice 10 cents. 

CLIPPER CHESS PROBLEM TOURNAMENT. Being- the splendid 
col: i ction of Chess Stratagems for which the New York UHpper awarde i 
Golu : nd Silver Medals, Together with many additional Problems. Edited 
by M^ iox J. IL* se ltt n k, Esq . , Chess Editor of the New York Clipper. A small 
32mo, eieg.i 't iy b< r i d in el h, and handy to put in the pocket. Price $1.00. 

MOKPHY'S 1VIA1 v GAMES. Being- a full account of his xno$ 
astonishing succt iv< ad, defeating, in almost every instance, the Che- »1 
eel ; ities of Eciropu. ii\ Charles Henuy Stanley, author "The Ches \ 
Plav. rslnsl uctr.r." Bor< 'ds, Price 50 cent ' 

r HADWICK'S AIM ^ICAN CRICKET MANUAL. Containing th 
Revised J aws of t! < auie, witl. an explanatory appendix to each rule, i 
i mrds. 50 •' , s : eh- h, jilt.... • «.75centN 

DE WTTT" « UA.SE-BALC GU.TDE (Published annually). This Boo 
i; < pages, print, i ,i: nue white pap^r, enclosed m a handsome 
; » oi. v i'h a diagram of thi. ball field, posii ion of players, etc. 
Pr:< o 10 feats. 



